Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/178

168 Now not so much as in remainder, Since Cibber brought in an attainder; For ever fix'd by right divine (A monarch's right) on Grub-street line. Poor starv'ling bard, how small thy gains! How unproportion'd to thy pains! And here a simile comes pat in: Though chickens take a month to fatten, The guests in less than half an hour Will more than half a score devour. So, after toiling twenty days To earn a stock of pence and praise, Thy labours, grown the critick's prey, Are swallow'd o'er a dish of tea: Gone to be never heard of more, Gone where the chickens went before. How shall a new attempter learn Of different spirits to discern, And how distinguish which is which, The poet's vein, or scribbling itch? Then hear an old experienc'd sinner, Instructing thus a young beginner. Consult yourself; and if you find A powerful impulse urge your mind, Impartial judge within your breast What subject you can manage best; Whether your genius most inclines To satire, praise, or humorous lines, To elegies in mournful tone, Or prologue sent from hand unknown. Then, rising with Aurora's light, The Muse invok'd, sit down to write; Blot out, correct, insert, refine, Enlarge, diminish, interline; Be