Justice shall in those shades confine, To drudge for Plutus in the mine, All the day long to toil and roar, And, cursing, work the stubborn ore, For coxcombs here, who have no brains, Without a sixpence for his pains: 470 Thence, with each due return of night, Compell'd, the tall, thin, half-starved sprite Shall earth revisit, and survey The place where once his treasure lay, Shall view the stall where holy Pride, With letter'd Ignorance allied, Once hail'd him mighty and adored, Descended to another lord: Then shall he, screaming, pierce the air, Hang his lank jaws, and scowl despair; 480 Then shall he ban at Heaven's decrees, And, howling, sink to Hell for ease. Those who on earth through life have pass'd With equal pace from first to last, Nor vex'd with passions nor with spleen, Insipid, easy, and serene; Whose heads were made too weak to bear The weight of business, or of care; Who, without merit, without crime, Contrive to while away their time; 490 Nor good nor bad, nor fools nor wits, Mild Justice, with a smile, permits Still to pursue their darling plan, And find amusement how they can. The beau, in gaudiest plumage dress'd, With lucky fancy o'er the rest Of air a curious mantle throws, And chats among his brother beaux; Or, if the weather's fine and clear, No sign of rain or tempest near, 500 Encouraged by the cloudless day, Like gilded butterflies at play, So lively all, so gay, so brisk, In air they flutter, float, and frisk. The belle (what mortal doth not know Belles after death admire a beau?) With happy grace renews her art To trap the coxcomb's wandering heart; And, after death as whilst they live, A heart is all which beaux can give. 510 In some still, solemn, sacred shade, Behold a group of authors laid, Newspaper wits, and sonneteers, Gentleman bards, and rhyming peers, Biographers, whose wondrous worth Is scarce remember'd now on earth, Whom Fielding's humour led astray, And plaintive fops, debauch'd by Gray, All sit together in a ring, And laugh and prattle, write and sing. 520 On his own works, with Laurel crown'd, Neatly and elegantly bound, (For this is one of many rules, With writing lords, and laureate fools, And which for ever must succeed With other lords who cannot read, However destitute of wit, To make their works for bookcase fit) Acknowledged master of those seats, Gibber his Birth-day Odes repeats. 530 With triumph now possess that seat, With triumph now thy Odes repeat; Unrivall'd vigils proudly keep, Whilst every hearer's lull'd to sleep; But know, illustrious bard! when Fate, Which still pursues thy name with hate, The regal laurel blasts, which now Blooms on the placid Whitehead's brow, Low must descend thy pride and fame,