Let him but answer Nature's great intent, 300 And fairly weigh himself with other men, Would ne'er debase the glories of his pen, Would in full state, like a true monarch, live, Nor bate one inch of his prerogative. Methinks I see old Wingate[318] frowning here, (Wingate may in the season be a peer, Though now, against his will, of figures sick, He's forced to diet on arithmetic, E'en whilst he envies every Jew he meets, Who cries old clothes to sell about the streets) 310 Methinks (his mind with future honours big, His Tyburn bob turn'd to a dress'd bag wig) I hear him cry--'What doth this jargon mean? Was ever such a damn'd dull blockhead seen? Majesty!--Bard!--Prerogative!--Disdain Hath got into, and turn'd the fellow's brain: To Bethlem with him--give him whips and straw-- I'm very sensible he's mad in law. A saucy groom, who trades in reason, thus To set himself upon a par with us; 320 If this _here's_ suffered, and if that _there_ fool, May, when he pleases, send us all to school, Why, then our only business is outright To take our caps, and bid the world good night. I've kept a bard myself this twenty years, But nothing of this kind in him appears; He, like a thorough true-bred spaniel, licks The hand which cuffs him, and the foot which kicks; He fetches and he carries, blacks my shoes, Nor thinks it a discredit to his Muse; 330 A creature of the right chameleon hue, He wears my colours, yellow or true blue, Just as I wear them: 'tis all one to him Whether I change through conscience, or through whim. Now this is something like; on such a plan A bard may find a friend in a great man; But this proud coxcomb--zounds, I thought that all Of this queer tribe had been like my old Paul.'[319] Injurious thought! accursed be the tongue On which the vile insinuation hung, 340 The heart where 'twas engender'd; cursed be those, Those bards, who not themselves alone expose, But me, but all, and make the very name By which they're call'd a standing mark of shame. Talk not of custom--'tis the coward's plea, Current with fools, but passes not with me; An old stale trick, which Guilt hath often tried By numbers to o'erpower the better side. Why tell me then that from the birth of Rhyme, No matter when, down to the present time, 350 As by the original decree of Fate, Bards have protection sought amongst the great; Conscious of weakness, have applied to them As vines to elms, and, twining round their stem, Flourish'd on high; to gain this wish'd support E'en Virgil to Maecenas paid his court? As to the custom, 'tis a point agreed, But 'twas a foolish diffidence, not need, From which it rose; had bards but truly known That strength, which is most properly their own, 360 Without a lord, unpropp'd they might have stood, And overtopp'd those giants of the wood.