Yet I abhor those writers, who despise Their honour, and alone their profits prize; Who their Apollo basely will degrade, And of a noble science make a trade. Before kind reason did her light display, And government taught mortals to obey, Men, like wild beasts, did nature's laws pursue, They fed on herbs, and drink from rivers drew; Their brutal force, on lust and rapine bent, Committed murder without punishment: Reason at last, by her all-conquering arts, Reduced these savages, and tuned their hearts; Mankind from bogs, and woods, and caverns calls, And towns and cities fortifies with walls: Thus fear of justice made proud rapine cease, And sheltered innocence by laws and peace. These benefits from poets we received; From whence are raised those fictions since believed, That Orpheus, by his soft harmonious strains, Tamed the fierce tygers of the Thracian plains; Amphion's notes, by their melodious powers, Drew rocks and woods, and raised the Theban towers: These miracles from numbers did arise; Since which, in verse heaven taught his mysteries, And by a priest, possessed with rage divine, Apollo spoke from his prophetic shrine. Soon after, Homer the old heroes praised, And noble minds by great examples raised; Then Hesiod did his Grecian swains incline To till the fields, and prune the bounteous vine. Thus useful rules were, by the poet's aid, In easy numbers to rude men conveyed, And pleasingly their precepts did impart; First charmed the ear, and then engaged the heart; The muses thus their reputation raised, And with just gratitude in Greece were praised. With pleasure mortals did their wonders see, And sacrificed to their divinity; But want, at last, base flattery entertained, And old Parnassus with this vice was stained; Desire of gain dazzling the poets' eyes, Their works were filled with fulsome flatteries. Thus needy wits a vile revenue made, And verse became a mercenary trade. Debase not with so mean a vice thy art; If gold must be the idol of thy heart, Fly, fly the unfruitful Heliconian strand! Those streams are not enriched with golden sand; Great wits, as well as warriors, only gain Laurels and honours for their toil and pain. But what? an author cannot live on fame, Or pay a reckoning with a lofty name: A poet, to whom fortune is unkind, Who when he goes to bed has hardly dined, Takes little pleasure in Parnassus' dreams, Or relishes the Heliconian streams; Horace had ease and plenty when he writ, } And free from cares for money or for meat, } Did not expect his dinner from his wit. } 'Tis true; but verse is cherished by the great, And now none famish who deserve to eat: What can we fear, when virtue, arts, and sense, Receive the stars' propitious influence;