My liege! why writers little claim your thought, I guess; and, with their leave, will tell the fault: We poets are (upon a poet's word) Of all mankind, the creatures most absurd: The season, when to come, and when to go, 360 To sing, or cease to sing, we never know; And if we will recite nine hours in ten, You lose your patience, just like other men. Then, too, we hurt ourselves, when to defend A single verse, we quarrel with a friend; Repeat unask'd; lament, the wit's too fine For vulgar eyes, and point out every line. But most, when straining with too weak a wing, We needs will write epistles to the king; And from the moment we oblige the town, 370 Expect a place, or pension from the crown; Or dubb'd historians by express command, To enrol your triumphs o'er the seas and land, Be call'd to court to plan some work divine, As once for Louis, Boileau and Racine. Yet think, great sir! (so many virtues shown) Ah think, what poet best may make them known? Or choose, at least, some minister of grace, Fit to bestow the Laureate's weighty place. Charles, to late times to be transmitted fair, 380 Assign'd his figure to Bernini's[154] care; And great Nassau to Kneller's hand decreed To fix him graceful on the bounding steed; So well in paint and stone they judged of merit: But kings in wit may want discerning spirit. The hero William, and the martyr Charles, One knighted Blackmore, and one pension'd Quarles; Which made old Ben and surly Dennis swear, 'No Lord's anointed, but a Russian bear.' Not with such majesty, such bold relief, 390 The forms august of king, or conquering chief. E'er swell'd on marble, as in verse have shined (In polish'd verse) the manners and the mind. Oh! could I mount on the Maeonian wing, Your arms, your actions, your repose to sing! What seas you traversed, and what fields you fought! Your country's peace, how oft, how dearly bought! How barbarous rage subsided at your word, And nations wonder'd while they dropp'd the sword! How, when you nodded, o'er the land and deep, 400 Peace stole her wing, and wrapp'd the world in sleep; Till earth's extremes your mediation own, And Asia's tyrants tremble at your throne-- But verse, alas! your Majesty disdains; And I'm not used to panegyric strains: The zeal of fools offends at any time, But most of all, the zeal of fools in rhyme. Besides, a fate attends on all I write, That when I aim at praise, they say I bite. A vile encomium doubly ridicules: 410 There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools. If true, a woful likeness; and if lies, 'Praise undeserved is scandal in disguise:' Well may he blush who gives it, or receives; And when I flatter, let my dirty leaves (Like journals, odes, and such forgotten things As Eusden, Philips, Settle, writ of kings) Clothe spice, line trunks, or fluttering in a row, Befringe the rails of Bedlam and Soho. * * * * *