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 But now are damn'd to wrapping Drugs and Wares, And curs'd by all their broken Stationers: And so may'st thou perchance pass up and down, And please a while th'admiring Court and Town, Who after shalt in Duck-lane Shops be thrown, To mould with Silvester and Shirley there, And truck for Pots of Ale next Stourbridge-Fair. Then who'll not laugh to see th'immortal Name To vile Mundungus made a Martyr flame? And all thy deathless Monuments of Wit, Wipe Porters Tails, or mount in Paper-Kite?

But, grant, thy Poetry should find success, And (which is rare) the squeamish Criticks please; Admit, it read, and prais'd, and courted be By this nice Age, and all Posterity;

If thou expectest ought but empty Fame; Condemn thy Hopes, and Labours to the flame: The Rich have now learn'd only to admire, He, who to greater Favours does aspire, Is mercenary thought, and writes to hire: Would'st thou to raise thine, and thy Countries Fame, Chuse some old English Hero for thy Theme,

Bold Arthur, or great Edward's greater Son,

Or our fifth Harry, matchless in Renown; Make Agincourt, and Cressy Fields outvie

The fam'd Lavinian Shores, and Walls of Troy; What Scipio, what Mæcenas would'st thou find, What Sidney now to thy great Project kind? ' Bless me! how great his Genius! how each Line

' Is big with Sense! how glorious a Design ' Does thro' the whole and each proportion shine! ' How lofty all his Thoughts, and how inspir'd!

' Pity, such wond'rous Thoughts are not preferred:

Cries a gay wealthy Sot, who would not bail

For bare five Pounds the Author out of Jail,

Should he starve there, and rot; who if a Brief

Came out the needy Poets to relieve,

To the whole Tribe would scarce a Tester give. But