Of all the various lots around the ball, Which fate to man distributes, absolute, Avert, ye gods! that of the Muse's son, Cursed with dire poverty! poor hungry wretch! What shall he do for life? He cannot work With manual labour; shall those sacred hands, That brought the counsels of the gods to light; Shall that inspired tongue, which every Muse Has touch'd divine, to charm the sons of men; These hallow'd organs! these! be prostitute 10 To the vile service of some fool in power, All his behests submissive to perform, Howe'er to him ungrateful? Oh! he scorns The ignoble thought; with generous disdain, More eligible deeming it to starve, Like his famed ancestors renown'd in verse, Than poorly bend to be another's slave,-- Than feed and fatten in obscurity.-- These are his firm resolves, which fate, nor time, Nor poverty can shake. Exalted high 20 In garret vile he lives; with remnants hung Of tapestry. But oh! precarious state Of this vain transient world! all-powerful Time, What dost thou not subdue? See what a chasm Gapes wide, tremendous! see where Saul, enraged, High on his throne, encompass'd by his guards, With levell'd spear, and arm extended, sits, Ready to pierce old Jesse's valiant son, Spoil'd of his nose!--around in tottering ranks, On shelves pulverulent, majestic stands 30 His library; in ragged plight, and old; Replete with many a load of criticism, Elaborate products of the midnight toil Of Belgian brains; snatch'd from the deadly hands Of murderous grocer, or the careful wight, Who vends the plant, that clads the happy shore Of Indian Patomac; which citizens In balmy fumes exhale, when, o'er a pot Of sage-inspiring coffee, they dispose Of kings and crowns, and settle Europe's fate. 40 Elsewhere the dome is fill'd with various heaps Of old domestic lumber; that huge chair Has seen six monarchs fill the British throne: Here a broad massy table stands, o'erspread With ink and pens, and scrolls replete with rhyme: Chests, stools, old razors, fractured jars, half-full Of muddy Zythum, sour and spiritless: Fragments of verse, hose, sandals, utensils Of various fashion, and of various use, With friendly influence hide the sable floor. 50 This is the bard's museum, this the fane To Phoebus sacred, and the Aonian maids: But, oh! it stabs his heart, that niggard fate To him in such small measure should dispense Her better gifts: to him! whose generous soul Could relish, with as fine an elegance, The golden joys of grandeur, and of wealth; He who could tyrannise o'er menial slaves, Or swell beneath a coronet of state, Or grace a gilded chariot with a mien, 60 Grand as the haughtiest Timon of them all.