Whate'er my theme, the Muse, who still Owns no direction but her will, 700 Plies off, and ere I could expect, By ways oblique and indirect, At once quite over head and ears In fatal politics appears. Time was, and, if I aught discern Of fate, that time shall soon return, When, decent and demure at least, As grave and dull as any priest, I could see Vice in robes array'd, Could see the game of Folly play'd 710 Successfully in Fortune's school, Without exclaiming rogue or fool. Time was, when, nothing both or proud, I lackey'd with the fawning crowd, Scoundrels in office, and would bow To cyphers great in place; but now Upright I stand, as if wise Fate, To compliment a shatter'd state, Had me, like Atlas, hither sent To shoulder up the firmament, 720 And if I stoop'd, with general crack, The heavens would tumble from my back. Time was, when rank and situation Secured the great ones of the nation From all control; satire and law Kept only little knaves in awe; But now, Decorum lost, I stand Bemused, a pencil in my hand, And, dead to every sense of shame, Careless of safety and of fame, 730 The names of scoundrels minute down, And libel more than half the town. How can a statesman be secure In all his villanies, if poor And dirty authors thus shall dare To lay his rotten bosom bare? Muses should pass away their time In dressing out the poet's rhyme With bills, and ribands, and array Each line in harmless taste, though gay; 740 When the hot burning fit is on, They should regale their restless son With something to allay his rage, Some cool Castalian beverage, Or some such draught (though they, 'tis plain, Taking the Muse's name in vain, Know nothing of their real court, And only fable from report) As makes a Whitehead's Ode go down, Or slakes the Feverette of Brown:[259] 750 But who would in his senses think, Of Muses giving gall to drink, Or that their folly should afford To raving poets gun or sword? Poets were ne'er designed by Fate To meddle with affairs of state, Nor should (if we may speak our thought Truly as men of honour ought) Sound policy their rage admit, To launch the thunderbolts of Wit 760 About those heads, which, when they're shot, Can't tell if 'twas by Wit or not. These things well known, what devil, in spite, Can have seduced me thus to write Out of that road, which must have led To riches, without heart or head, Into that road, which, had I more Than ever poet had before Of wit and virtue, in disgrace Would keep me still, and out of place; 770 Which, if some judge (you'll understand One famous, famous through the land For making law[260]) should stand my friend, At last may in a pillory end; And all this, I myself admit, Without one cause to lead to it?