With authors, stationers obey'd the call, (The field of glory is a field for all). Glory and gain the industrious tribe provoke; And gentle Dulness ever loves a joke. A poet's form she placed before their eyes, And bade the nimblest racer seize the prize; No meagre, muse-rid mope, adust and thin, In a dun night-gown of his own loose skin; But such a bulk as no twelve bards could raise, Twelve starveling bards of these degenerate days. 40 All as a partridge plump, full-fed, and fair, She form'd this image of well-bodied air; With pert flat eyes she window'd well its head; A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead; And empty words she gave, and sounding strain, But senseless, lifeless! idol void and vain! Never was dash'd out, at one lucky hit,[297] A fool, so just a copy of a wit; So like, that critics said, and courtiers swore, A wit it was, and call'd the phantom More.[298] 50 All gaze with ardour: some a poet's name, Others a sword-knot and laced suit inflame. But lofty Lintot[299] in the circle rose: 'This prize is mine; who tempt it are my foes; With me began this genius, and shall end.' He spoke: and who with Lintot shall contend? Fear held them mute. Alone, untaught to fear, Stood dauntless Curll:[300] 'Behold that rival here! The race by vigour, not by vaunts is won; So take the hindmost Hell.' He said, and run. 60 Swift as a bard the bailiff leaves behind, He left huge Lintot, and out-stripp'd the wind. As when a dab-chick waddles through the copse On feet and wings, and flies, and wades, and hops: So labouring on, with shoulders, hands, and head, Wide as a wind-mill all his figure spread, With arms expanded Bernard rows his state, And left-legg'd Jacob[301] seems to emulate. Full in the middle way there stood a lake, Which Curll's Corinna[302] chanced that morn to make: 70 (Such was her wont, at early dawn to drop Her evening cates before his neighbour's shop,) Here fortuned Curll to slide; loud shout the band, And Bernard! Bernard! rings through all the Strand. Obscene with filth the miscreant lies bewray'd, Fallen in the plash his wickedness had laid: Then first (if poets aught of truth declare) The caitiff vaticide conceived a prayer: 'Hear, Jove! whose name my bards and I adore, As much at least as any god's, or more; 80 And him and his if more devotion warms, Down with the Bible, up with the Pope's arms.'[303] A place there is, betwixt earth, air, and seas,[304] Where, from Ambrosia, Jove retires for ease. There in his seat two spacious vents appear, On this he sits, to that he leans his ear, And hears the various vows of fond mankind; Some beg an eastern, some a western wind: All vain petitions, mounting to the sky, With reams abundant this abode supply; 90 Amused he reads, and then returns the bills Sign'd with that ichor which from gods distils.