Were never made for poets to control.' Peace, peace, thou dotard! nor thus vilely deem Of sacred numbers, and their power blaspheme. I tell thee, wretch, search all creation round, In earth, in heaven, no subject can be found: 130 (Our God alone except) above whose height The poet cannot rise, and hold his state. The blessed saints above in numbers speak The praise of God, though there all praise is weak; In numbers here below the bard shall teach Virtue to soar beyond the villain's reach; Shall tear his labouring lungs, strain his hoarse throat, And raise his voice beyond the trumpet's note, Should an afflicted country, awed by men Of slavish principles, demand his pen. 140 This is a great, a glorious point of view, Fit for an English poet to pursue; Undaunted to pursue, though, in return, His writings by the common hangman burn How do I laugh, when men, by fortune placed Above their betters, and by rank disgraced, Who found their pride on titles which they stain, And, mean themselves, are of their fathers vain; Who would a bill of privilege prefer, And treat a poet like a creditor; 150 The generous ardour of the Muse condemn, And curse the storm they know must break on them! 'What! shall a reptile bard, a wretch unknown, Without one badge of merit but his own, Great nobles lash, and lords, like common men, Smart from the vengeance of a scribbler's pen?' What's in this name of lord, that I should fear To bring their vices to the public ear? Flows not the honest blood of humble swains Quick as the tide which swells a monarch's veins? 160 Monarchs, who wealth and titles can bestow, Cannot make virtues in succession flow. Wouldst thou, proud man! be safely placed above The censure of the Muse? Deserve her love: Act as thy birth demands, as nobles ought; Look back, and, by thy worthy father taught, Who earn'd those honours thou wert born to wear, Follow his steps, and be his virtue's heir. But if, regardless of the road to fame, You start aside, and tread the paths of shame; 170 If such thy life, that should thy sire arise, The sight of such a son would blast his eyes, Would make him curse the hour which gave thee birth, Would drive him shuddering from the face of earth, Once more, with shame and sorrow, 'mongst the dead In endless night to hide his reverend head; If such thy life, though kings had made thee more Than ever king a scoundrel made before; Nay, to allow thy pride a deeper spring, Though God in vengeance had made thee a king, 180 Taking on Virtue's wing her daring flight, The Muse should drag thee, trembling, to the light, Probe thy foul wounds, and lay thy bosom bare To the keen question of the searching air. Gods! with what pride I see the titled slave, Who smarts beneath the stroke which Satire gave, Aiming at ease, and with dishonest art Striving to hide the feelings of his heart!