'Tis best to keep her weak, and at arm's length. 'Tis well enough for bards, if patrons give, From hand to mouth, the scanty means to live. 430 Such is their language, and their practice such; They promise little, and they give not much. Let the weak bard, with prostituted strain, Praise that proud Scot whom all good men disdain; What's his reward? Why, his own fame undone, He may obtain a patent for the run Of his lord's kitchen, and have ample time, With offal fed, to court the cook in rhyme; Or (if he strives true patriots to disgrace) May at the second table get a place; 440 With somewhat greater slaves allow'd to dine, And play at crambo o'er his gill of wine. And are there bards, who, on creation's file, Stand rank'd as men, who breathe in this fair isle The air of freedom, with so little gall, So low a spirit, prostrate thus to fall Before these idols, and without a groan Bear wrongs might call forth murmurs from a stone? Better, and much more noble, to abjure The sight of men, and in some cave, secure 450 From all the outrages of Pride, to feast On Nature's salads, and be free at least. Better, (though that, to say the truth, is worse Than almost any other modern curse) Discard all sense, divorce the thankless Muse, Critics commence, and write in the Reviews; Write without tremor, Griffiths[324] cannot read; No fool can fail, where Langhorne can succeed. But (not to make a brave and honest pride Try those means first, she must disdain when tried) 460 There are a thousand ways, a thousand arts, By which, and fairly, men of real parts May gain a living, gain what Nature craves; Let those, who pine for more, live, and be slaves. Our real wants in a small compass lie, But lawless appetite, with eager eye, Kept in a constant fever, more requires, And we are burnt up with our own desires. Hence our dependence, hence our slavery springs; Bards, if contented, are as great as kings. 470 Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill; We may be independent, if we will. The man who suits his spirit to his state Stands on an equal footing with the great; Moguls themselves are not more rich, and he Who rules the English nation, not more free. Chains were not forged more durable and strong For bards than others, but they've worn them long, And therefore wear them still; they've quite forgot What Freedom is, and therefore prize her not. 480 Could they, though in their sleep, could they but know The blessings which from Independence flow; Could they but have a short and transient gleam Of Liberty, though 'twas but in a dream, They would no more in bondage bend their knee, But, once made freemen, would be always free. The Muse, if she one moment freedom gains, Can nevermore submit to sing in chains. Bred in a cage, far from the feather'd throng, The bird repays his keeper with his song; 490