The vermin only tease and pinch Their foes superior by an inch: So, naturalists observe, a flea Hath smaller fleas that on him prey; And these have smaller still to bite 'em, And so proceed _ad infinitum_. Thus every poet in his kind Is bit by him that comes behind: Who, though too little to be seen, Can tease, and gall, and give the spleen; Call dunces fools and sons of whores, Lay Grub Street at each other's doors; Extol the Greek and Roman masters, And curse our modern poetasters; Complain, as many an ancient bard did, How genius is no more rewarded; How wrong a taste prevails among us; How much our ancestors out-sung us; Can personate an awkward scorn For those who are not poets born; And all their brother-dunces lash, Who crowd the press with hourly trash. O Grub Street! how do I bemoan thee, Whose graceless children scorn to own thee! Their filial piety forgot, Deny their country like a Scot; Though by their idiom and grimace, They soon betray their native place. Yet thou hast greater cause to be Ashamed of them, than they of thee, Degenerate from their ancient brood Since first the court allowed them food. Remains a difficulty still, To purchase fame by writing ill. From Flecknoe down to Howard's time, How few have reached the low sublime! For when our high-born Howard died, Blackmore alone his place supplied; And lest a chasm should intervene, When death had finished Blackmore's reign, The leaden crown devolved to thee, Great poet of the Hollow Tree. But ah! how unsecure thy throne! A thousand bards thy right disown; They plot to turn, in factious zeal, Duncenia to a commonweal; And with rebellious arms pretend An equal privilege to defend. In bulk there are not more degrees From elephants to mites in cheese, Than what a curious eye may trace In creatures of the rhyming race. From bad to worse, and worse, they fall; But who can reach the worst of all? For though in nature, depth and height Are equally held infinite; In poetry, the height we know; 'Tis only infinite below. For instance, when you rashly think No rhymer can like Welsted sink, His merits balanced, you shall find The laureate leaves him far behind; Concannen, more aspiring bard, Soars downwards deeper by a yard; Smart Jemmy Moor with vigour drops; The rest pursue as thick as hops. With heads to point, the gulf they enter, Linked perpendicular to the centre; And, as their heels elated rise, Their heads attempt the nether skies. Oh, what indignity and shame, To prostitute the Muse's name, By flattering kings, whom Heaven designed The plagues and scourges of mankind; Bred up in ignorance and sloth, And every vice that nurses both.