Proud as Apollo on his forked hill, Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by ev'ry quill; 230 Fed with soft Dedication all day long. Horace and he went hand in hand in song. His Library (where busts of Poets dead And a true Pindar stood without a head,) Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race, 235 Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place: Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat, And flatter'd ev'ry day, and some days eat: Till grown more frugal in his riper days, He paid some bards with port, and some with praise; 240 To some a dry rehearsal saw assign'd, And others (harder still) he paid in kind. _Dryden_ alone (what wonder?) came not nigh, _Dryden_ alone escap'd this judging eye: But still the _Great_ have kindness in reserve, 245 He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve. May some choice patron bless each gray goose quill! May ev'ry _Bavius_ have his _Bufo_ still! So, when a Statesman wants a day's defence, Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Sense, 250 Or simple pride for flatt'ry makes demands, May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands! Blest be the _Great!_ for those they take away. And those they left me; for they left me Gay; Left me to see neglected Genius bloom, 255 Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb: Of all thy blameless life the sole return My Verse, and Queenb'ry weeping o'er thy urn. Oh let me live my own, and die so too! (To live and die is all I have to do:) 260 Maintain a Poet's dignity and ease, And see what friends, and read what books I please; Above a Patron, tho' I condescend Sometimes to call a minister my friend. I was not born for Courts or great affairs; 265 I pay my debts, believe, and say my pray'rs; Can sleep without a Poem in my head; Nor know, if _Dennis_ be alive or dead. Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light? Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write? 270 Has Life no joys for me? or, (to be grave) Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save? "I found him close with _Swift_"--'Indeed? no doubt,' (Cries prating _Balbus_) 'something will come out.' 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will. 275 'No, such a Genius never can lie still;' And then for mine obligingly mistakes The first Lampoon Sir _Will_, or _Bubo_ makes. Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile, When ev'ry Coxcomb knows me by my _Style_? 280