I cannot rule my spleen; My scorn rebels, and tickles me within. First, to begin at home:--Our authors write In lonely rooms, secured from public sight; Whether in prose, or verse, 'tis all the same, The prose is fustian, and the numbers lame; All noise, and empty pomp, a storm of words, Labouring with sound, that little sense affords. They comb, and then they order every hair; } A gown, or white, or scoured to whiteness, wear, } A birth-day jewel bobbing at their ear;[179] } Next, gargle well their throats; and, thus prepared, They mount, a God's name, to be seen and heard; From their high scaffold, with a trumpet cheek, And ogling all their audience ere they speak. The nauseous nobles, even the chief of Rome, With gaping mouths to these rehearsals come, And pant with pleasure, when some lusty line The marrow pierces, and invades the chine; At open fulsome bawdry they rejoice, And slimy jests applaud with broken voice. Base prostitute! thus dost thou gain thy bread? Thus dost thou feed their ears, and thus art fed? At his own filthy stuff he grins and brays, And gives the sign where he expects their praise. Why have I learned, sayst thou, if thus confined, I choke the noble vigour of my mind? Know, my wild fig-tree, which in rocks is bred, Will split the quarry, and shoot out the head.[180] Fine fruits of learning! old ambitious fool, Darest thou apply that adage of the school, As if 'tis nothing worth that lies concealed, And "science is not science till revealed?" Oh, but 'tis brave to be admired, to see The crowd, with pointing fingers, cry,--That's he; That's he, whose wonderous poem is become A lecture for the noble youth of Rome! Who, by their fathers, is at feasts renowned, And often quoted when the bowls go round. Full gorged and flushed, they wantonly rehearse, And add to wine the luxury of verse. One, clad in purple, not to lose his time, Eats and recites some lamentable rhyme; Some senseless Phillis, in a broken note, Snuffling at nose, and croaking in his throat. Then graciously the mellow audience nod; Is not the immortal author made a god? Are not his manes blest, such praise to have? Lies not the turf more lightly on his grave? And roses (while his loud applause they sing) Stand ready from his sepulchre to spring? All these, you cry, but light objections are, Mere malice, and you drive the jest too far: For does there breathe a man, who can reject A general fame, and his own lines neglect? In cedar tablets[181] worthy to appear, } That need not fish, or frankincense, to fear? } Thou, whom I make the adverse part to bear, }