Next rose the martial Homer, Epic's prince, And Fighting's been in fashion ever since; 680 And old Tyrtæus, when the Spartans warred, (A limping leader, but a lofty bard) [lxxxvii] Though walled Ithome had resisted long, Reduced the fortress by the force of song. When Oracles prevailed, in times of old, In song alone Apollo's will was told. [lxxxviii] Then if your verse is what all verse should be, And Gods were not ashamed on't, why should we? The Muse, like mortal females, may be wooed; [66] In turns she'll seem a Paphian, or a prude; 690 Fierce as a bride when first she feels affright, Mild as the same upon the second night; Wild as the wife of Alderman or Peer, Now for His Grace, and now a grenadier! Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone-- Ice in a crowd--and Lava when alone. If Verse be studied with some show of Art. Kind Nature always will perform her part; Though without Genius, and a native vein Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain, 700 Yet Art and Nature joined will win the prize, Unless they act like us and our allies. The youth who trains to ride, or run a race, Must bear privations with unruffled face, Be called to labour when he thinks to dine, And, harder still, leave wenching and his wine. Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight, Have followed Music through her farthest flight; [lxxxix] But rhymers tell you neither more nor less, "I've got a pretty poem for the Press;" 710 And that's enough; then write and print so fast;-- If Satan take the hindmost, who'd be last? They storm the Types, they publish, one and all, [xc] [67] They leap the counter, and they leave the stall. Provincial Maidens, men of high command, Yea! Baronets have inked the bloody hand! Cash cannot quell them; Pollio played this prank, [xci] (Then Phoebus first found credit in a Bank!) Not all the living only, but the dead, Fool on, as fluent as an Orpheus' Head; [68] 720 Damned all their days, they posthumously thrive, Dug up from dust, though buried when alive! Reviews record this epidemic crime, Those Books of Martyrs to the rage for rhyme. Alas! woe worth the scribbler! often seen In Morning Post, or Monthly Magazine. There lurk his earlier lays; but soon, hot pressed, [xcii] Behold a Quarto!--Tarts must tell the rest. Then leave, ye wise, the Lyre's precarious chords To muse-mad baronets, or madder lords, [cxiii] 730 Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale, Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale! Hark to those notes, narcotically soft! The Cobbler-Laureats [69] sing to Capel Lofft! [70] Till, lo! that modern Midas, as he hears, [xciv] Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears! [xcv] There lives one Druid, who prepares in time [71] 'Gainst future feuds his poor revenge of rhyme;