Now the whole house a solemn stillness holds, Save from the staircase head, with noisy tongue, My landlady inexorably scolds, And with shrill clamours interrupts my song. Beneath a heap of rude waste paper plac’d, (Alas that Grub-street Bards so soon should die!) The writings of my brethren are disgrac’d, Or, doom’d to chandlers-shops, neglected lie. Fresh oysters, chaunted with melodious voice, Or Printers’ Devils ever hasty tread, Shall nought avail to make these men rejoice, Or rouse those writings which to fame are dead. For these no more the ceilings shall be swept, Or spiders driven from their dreary dens, Who twice ten months have unmolested slept And brav’d the fury of succeeding pens. Oft did the actors tremble at their power, When rang’d in dread array along the pit, To hiss the varied fictions of each hour, Supreme in judgment, arbiters of wit. Let not rich aldermen the feasts deride To which necessity the Poet calls; For Nature, bounteous parent, can provide Delicious fare apart from Gilded Walls. Faint are the joys which Ven’son can bestow, Faint is the pleasure Turtle can impart; By sad experience we are taught to know, These aching limbs succeed, with anguish’d heart. Nor you, thrice happy few! whose writings please, Contemn the Bard whom Fame disdains to crown, Or scorn the wretch, whose vain attempts to seize The Laureat Wreath, are sadly overthrown. Can pompous dedication’s splendid line, Or praises on rich Lords profusely poured, Make Envy her dire qualities resign, Or empty fame satiety afford? Perhaps in this sad garret once has lodged Some vent’rous Knight, well skill’d to cog the die, Who dextrously the Bailiffs oft has dodged, Or made the sleepy watchmen nimbly fly. Some sturdy Humphries, that with brawny fists, Well skill’d in Boxing’s _scientific_ lore, Defied the Sons of Israel to the lists, And beat their champion till he rose no more. Some Peter Pindar here has tun’d his lyre, Or some sagacious Pig here learn’d to read; Some Juggler chewed a stone, or swallowed fire; Or here to eat live cats ’twas first decreed. Yet e’en their fame from Malice to defend, Unhappy Poets shall essay to write, With labour’d lines and verses badly penn’d, Whate’er the God of Dulness may recite. Their Names and Portraits on the dusty walls, With ballads setting forth their high renown, In rural cottages, or servants halls, Shall gratify the gaping country clown. For what incurious mind could e’er resign The busy bustling pleasures of the town; Who could the joys of London e’er decline, Unless deterr’d by Poverty’s sad frown. On some gay scene, by flattering Fancy dress’d, The visionary mind still loves to dwell; And Sadler’s Wells, or Lord Mayor’s gaudy vests, Delight the village beau, or rustic belle.