But hold, before I close the scene, The sacred altar should be clean. Oh, had I Shadwell's[1] second bays, Or, Tate![2] thy pert and humble lays! (Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow I never miss'd your works till now) I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine, 80 (That only way you please the Nine) But since I chance to want these two, I'll make the songs of Durfey[3] do. Rent from the corpse, on yonder pin I hang the scales that braced it in; I hang my studious morning gown, And write my own inscription down. 'This trophy from the Python won, This robe, in which the deed was done, 90 These, Parnell glorying in the feat, Hung on these shelves, the Muses' seat. Here Ignorance and Hunger found Large realms of wit to ravage round; Here Ignorance and Hunger fell-- Two foes in one I sent to hell. Ye poets, who my labours see, Come share the triumph all with me! Ye critics, born to vex the Muse, Go mourn the grand ally you lose!' 100 [Footnote 1: 'Shadwell:' Dryden's rival.] [Footnote 2: 'Tate:' Nahum. See Life of Dryden.] [Footnote 3: 'Durfey:' the well-known wit of the time.] * * * * * AN ALLEGORY ON MAN. A thoughtful being, long and spare, Our race of mortals call him Care; (Were Homer living, well he knew What name the gods have call'd him too) With fine mechanic genius wrought, And loved to work, though no one bought. This being, by a model bred In Jove's eternal sable head, Contrived a shape, empower'd to breathe, And be the worldling here beneath. 10 The Man rose staring, like a stake, Wondering to see himself awake! Then look'd so wise, before he knew The business he was made to do, That, pleased to see with what a grace He gravely show'd his forward face, Jove talk'd of breeding him on high, An under-something of the sky. But e'er he gave the mighty nod, Which ever binds a poet's god, 20 (For which his curls ambrosial shake, And mother Earth's obliged to quake:) He saw old mother Earth arise, She stood confess'd before his eyes; But not with what we read she wore, A castle for a crown, before; Nor with long streets and longer roads Dangling behind her, like commodes: As yet with wreaths alone she dress'd, And trail'd a landscape-painted vest. 30 Then thrice she raised, (as Ovid said) And thrice she bow'd her weighty head. Her honours made, Great Jove, she cried, This thing was fashion'd from my side; His hands, his heart, his head are mine; Then what hast thou to call him thine? Nay, rather ask, the monarch said, What boots his hand, his heart, his head? Were what I gave removed away, Thy parts an idle shape of clay. 40