Speak, dull Philosopher; what's all You, in mistake, do Science call? Since _Socrates_ with much ado, Learn'd only that he nothing knew. There's nothing unconfin'd and free, Except the Soul of Poetry, When it does on our Organs play. Throw all your Mystick Books away, And study Natures Library: Mount up to Heaven's refulgent Throne, There by the Lab'ring Muses drawn. First, pause a while, then Write, and all The Gods to Convocation call; Then with Imperious frowns survey Poor Mortals damn'd to treading clay; And raising Piles, till pitying Fate Pulls the brick ruins on their pate. There laugh at Princes, who do groan Under the burden of a Crown: And condemn Riches, which we see} Is but a Golden Slavery; } We're Richer far in Poetry. } But hold!---- I'm almost starv'd, as I'm a Sinner, Prethee, _Jack_, Trust me for a Dinner. Poor Poet! what a wretch th'art grown? Cast to a Dungeon from a Throne! Thou who but now did'st reach the Sky, Low as Despair art forc'd to lie: Those soaring thoughts thou didst admire, With thy Poetick rage expire. 'Twas but a Dream, and now I see Riddles unty'd to Fetter me. The Angels height procur'd their Thrall, But 'tis my lowness makes me Fall. Had Nature giv'n me a Rich Mine, As other Fops I'd happy been; Nor had I been exposed thus, To make my plaints ridiculous. For Wit and Wealth such Rivals are, That they can't Reign in the same Sphere, But as when Kings each other thwart, Th' unhappy Subjects feel the smart: So those t' whom Nature has been kind, Must Fortunes Rage and Malice find. And 'till these Friends and Partners grow, Who can have Wit and Money too? But if the World hath such a Creature, He's Monstrous, and not made by Nature. Poets are Chymists, who want skill To perfect Metals as they will; Yet Clothes, or Money, what you please, Be sure they'l turn to _Sack_ with ease; Then with that _Sack_ they can prepare } Castles, nay, Kingdoms in the Air, } And carve themselves whole Lordships there.} But since they here so disagree About a paltry Lawrel Tree, I wonder what a Dev'l they do, When to these fancy'd Lands they go: But hold! they'l all be De'ties there, And every one will have his Sphere. For all the Gods of which we read, Were by th' Almighty Poets made: And they who did their God-heads make, May at their pleasures take 'em back. _The Second CANTO._ How often have I seen the Taylor, The Shoe-maker, and Milliner, And ev'ry Fop that sells his Ware, O're this poor Creature domineer? And I can't choose but let you know it, How a curst _Broker_ met a _Poet_, Walking through _Smithfield_ on a time, O're whom he swagger'd thus in Rhime.