The man, who, stretch'd in Isis' calm retreat, To books and study gives seven years complete, See! strew'd with learned dust, his nightcap on, He walks, an object new beneath the sun! The boys flock round him, and the people stare: 120 So stiff, so mute! some statue, you would swear, Stepp'd from its pedestal to take the air! And here, while town, and court, and city roars, With mobs, and duns, and soldiers, at their doors: Shall I, in London, act this idle part? Composing songs,[161] for fools to get by heart? The Temple late two brother sergeants saw, Who deem'd each other oracles of law; With equal talents, these congenial souls, One lull'd th' Exchequer, and one stunn'd the Rolls; 130 Each had a gravity would make you split, And shook his head at Murray, as a wit. ''Twas, sir, your law'--and 'Sir, your eloquence,' 'Yours, Cowper's manner--and yours, Talbot's sense.' Thus we dispose of all poetic merit, Yours Milton's genius, and mine Homer's spirit. Call Tibbald Shakspeare, and he'll swear the Nine, Dear Cibber! never match'd one ode of thine. Lord! how we strut through Merlin's cave, to see No poets there, but, Stephen,[162] you, and me. 140 Walk with respect behind, while we at ease Weave laurel crowns, and take what names we please. 'My dear Tibullus!' if that will not do, 'Let me be Horace, and be Ovid you:' Or 'I'm content, allow me Dryden's strains, And you shall rise up Otway for your pains.' Much do I suffer, much, to keep in peace This jealous, waspish, wrong-head, rhyming race; And much must flatter, if the whim should bite To court applause by printing what I write: 150 But let the fit pass o'er, I'm wise enough To stop my ears to their confounded stuff. In vain bad rhymers all mankind reject, They treat themselves with most profound respect; 'Tis to small purpose that you hold your tongue, Each, praised within, is happy all day long, But how severely with themselves proceed The men, who write such verse as we can read? Their own strict judges, not a word they spare That wants, or force, or light, or weight, or care, 160 Howe'er unwillingly it quits its place, Nay though at court (perhaps) it may find grace: Such they'll degrade; and sometimes, in its stead, In downright charity revive the dead; Mark where a bold expressive phrase appears, Bright through the rubbish of some hundred years; Command old words, that long have slept, to wake, Words that wise Bacon or brave Raleigh spake; Or bid the new be English, ages hence, (For use will father what's begot by sense) 170 Pour the full tide of eloquence along, Serenely pure, and yet divinely strong, Rich with the treasures of each foreign tongue; Prune the luxuriant, the uncouth refine, But show no mercy to an empty line: Then polish all, with so much life and ease, You think 'tis nature, and a knack to please: But ease in writing flows from art, not chance; As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.