Racks his dull Memory, and his duller Muse, To publish faults which Friendship should excuse. 740 If Friendship's nothing, Self-regard might teach More polished usage of his parts of speech. But what is shame, or what is aught to him? [xcvi] He vents his spleen, or gratifies his whim. Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hate, Some folly crossed, some jest, or some debate; Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon The gathered gall is voided in Lampoon. Perhaps at some pert speech you've dared to frown, Perhaps your Poem may have pleased the Town: 750 If so, alas! 'tis nature in the man-- May Heaven forgive you, for he never can! Then be it so; and may his withering Bays Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink, But springing upwards from the sluggish mould, Be (what they never were before) be--sold! Should some rich Bard (but such a monster now, [72] In modern Physics, we can scarce allow), [xcvii] 760 Should some pretending scribbler of the Court, Some rhyming Peer--there's plenty of the sort--[xcviii] [73] All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn, (Ah! too regardless of his Chaplain's yawn!) Condemn the unlucky Curate to recite Their last dramatic work by candle-light, How would the preacher turn each rueful leaf, Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief! Yet, since 'tis promised at the Rector's death, He'll risk no living for a little breath. 770 Then spouts and foams, and cries at every line, (The Lord forgive him!) "Bravo! Grand! Divine!" Hoarse with those praises (which, by Flatt'ry fed, [xcix] Dependence barters for her bitter bread), He strides and stamps along with creaking boot; Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot, Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, [c] As when the dying vicar will not die! Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart;-- But all Dissemblers overact their part. 780 Ye, who aspire to "build the lofty rhyme," [74] Believe not all who laud your false "sublime;" But if some friend shall hear your work, and say, "Expunge that stanza, lop that line away," And, after fruitless efforts, you return Without amendment, and he answers, "Burn!" That instant throw your paper in the fire, Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire; But (if true Bard!) you scorn to condescend, [ci] And will not alter what you can't defend, 790 If you will breed this Bastard of your Brains, [75] We'll have no words--I've only lost my pains.