And court an antiquated Muse? 80 No matter why--to ask a reason, In pedant bigotry is treason. In the broad, beaten turnpike-road Of hacknied panegyric ode, No modern poet dares to ride Without Apollo by his side, Nor in a sonnet take the air, Unless his lady Muse be there; She, from some amaranthine grove, Where little Loves and Graces rove, 90 The laurel to my lord must bear, Or garlands make for whores to wear; She, with soft elegiac verse, Must grace some mighty villain's hearse, Or for some infant, doom'd by Fate To wallow in a large estate, With rhymes the cradle must adorn, To tell the world a fool is born. Since then our critic lords expect No hardy poet should reject 100 Establish'd maxims, or presume To place much better in their room, By nature fearful, I submit, And in this dearth of sense and wit-- With nothing done, and little said, (By wild excursive Fancy led Into a second Book thus far, Like some unwary traveller, Whom varied scenes of wood and lawn, With treacherous delight, have drawn, 110 Deluded from his purposed way, Whom every step leads more astray: Who, gazing round, can no where spy, Or house, or friendly cottage nigh, And resolution seems to lack To venture forward, or go back) Invoke some goddess to descend, And help me to my journey's end; Though conscious Arrow all the while Hears the petition with a smile, 120 Before the glass her charms unfolds, And in herself my Muse beholds. Truth, Goddess of celestial birth, But little loved or known on earth, Whose power but seldom rules the heart, Whose name, with hypocritic art, An arrant stalking-horse is made, A snug pretence to drive a trade, An instrument, convenient grown, To plant more firmly Falsehood's throne, 130 As rebels varnish o'er their cause With specious colouring of laws, And pious traitors draw the knife In the king's name against his life; Whether (from cities far away, Where Fraud and Falsehood scorn thy sway) The faithful nymph's and shepherd's pride, With Love and Virtue by thy side, Your hours in harmless joys are spent Amongst the children of Content; 140 Or, fond of gaiety and sport, You tread the round of England's court, Howe'er my lord may frowning go, And treat the stranger as a foe, Sure to be found a welcome guest In George's and in Charlotte's breast; If, in the giddy hours of youth, My constant soul adhered to truth; If, from the time I first wrote Man, I still pursued thy sacred plan, 150 Tempted by Interest in vain To wear mean Falsehood's golden chain; If, for a season drawn away, Starting from Virtue's path astray, All low disguise I scorn'd to try, And dared to sin, but not to lie; Hither, oh! hither condescend, Eternal Truth! thy steps to bend, And favour him, who, every hour,