Nor looks behind him till he safe regain His faithful citadel; there, spent, fatigued, He lays him down to ease his heaving lungs, Quaking, and of his safety scarce convinced. Soon as the panic leaves his panting breast, Down to the Muse's sacred rites he sits, Volumes piled round him; see! upon his brow 130 Perplex'd anxiety, and struggling thought, Painful as female throes: whether the bard Display the deeds of heroes; or the fall Of vice, in lay dramatic; or expand The lyric wing; or in elegiac strains Lament the fair; or lash the stubborn age, With laughing satire; or in rural scenes With shepherds sport; or rack his hard-bound brains For the unexpected turn. Arachne so, In dusty kitchen corner, from her bowels 140 Spins the fine web, but spins with better fate, Than the poor bard: she! caitiff! spreads her snares, And with their aid enjoys luxurious life, Bloated with fat of insects, flesh'd in blood: He! hard, hard lot! for all his toil and care, And painful watchings, scarce protracts a while His meagre, hungry days! ungrateful world! If with his drama he adorn the stage, No worth-discerning concourse pays the charge. Or of the orchestra, or the enlightening torch. 150 He who supports the luxury and pride Of craving Lais; he! whose carnage fills Dogs, eagles, lions; has not yet enough, Wherewith to satisfy the greedier maw Of that most ravenous, that devouring beast, Ycleped a poet. What new Halifax, What Somers, or what Dorset canst thou find, Thou hungry mortal? Break, wretch, break thy quill, Blot out the studied image; to the flames Commit the Stagyrite; leave this thankless trade; 160 Erect some pedling stall, with trinkets stock'd, There earn thy daily halfpence, nor again Trust the false Muse; so shall the cleanly meal Repel intruding hunger.--Oh! 'tis vain, The friendly admonition's all in vain; The scribbling itch has seized him, he is lost To all advice, and starves for starving's sake. Thus sung the sportful Muse, in mirthful mood, Indulging gay the frolic vein of youth; But, oh! ye gods, avert th' impending stroke 170 This luckless omen threatens! Hark! methinks I hear my better angel cry, 'Retreat, Rash youth! in time retreat; let those poor bards, Who slighted all, all! for the flattering Muse, Yet cursed with pining want, as landmarks stand, To warn thee from the service of the ingrate.' A BRITISH PHILIPPIC. OCCASIONED BY THE INSULTS OF THE SPANIARDS, AND THE PRESENT PREPARATIONS FOR WAR. 1738.