Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/14

4 His heart too great, though fortune little, To lick a rascal statesman's spittle; Appealing to the nation's taste, Above the reach of want is plac'd: By Homer dead was taught to thrive, Which Homer never could alive; And sits aloft on Pindus' head, Despising slaves that cringe for bread. True politicians only pay For solid work, but not for play: Nor ever choose to work with tools Forg'd up in colleges and schools. Consider how much more is due To all their journeymen than you: At table you can Horace quote; They at a pinch can bribe a vote: You show your skill in Grecian story; But they can manage whig and tory: You, as a critick, are so curious To find a verse in Virgil spurious; But they can smoke the deep designs, When Bolingbroke with Pulteney dines. Besides, your patron may upbraid ye, That you have got a place already; An office for your talents fit, To flatter, carve, and show your wit; To snuff the lights and stir the fire, And get a dinner for your hire. What claim have you to place or pension? He overpays in condescension. But, reverend doctor, you we know Could never condescend so low; The viceroy, whom you now attend, Would, if he durst, be more your friend; Nor