No More Learning

a birth-day song. 220
I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days,
To spread about the itch of verse and praise;
Nor like a puppy, daggled thro' the town,
To fetch and carry sing-song up and down;
Nor at Rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, 225
With handkerchief and orange at my side;
But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
To Bufo left the whole Castalian state.

Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by ev'ry quill; 230
Fed with soft Dedication all day long.
Horace and he went hand in hand in song.
His Library (where busts of Poets dead
And a true Pindar stood without a head,)
Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race, 235
Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place:
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat,
And flatter'd ev'ry day, and some days eat:
Till grown more frugal in his riper days,
He paid some bards with port, and some with praise; 240
To some a dry rehearsal saw assign'd,
And others (harder still) he paid in kind.
_Dryden_ alone (what wonder? ) came not nigh,
_Dryden_ alone escap'd this judging eye:
But still the _Great_ have kindness in reserve, 245
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.

May some choice patron bless each gray goose quill!
May ev'ry _Bavius_ have his _Bufo_ still!
So, when a Statesman wants a day's defence,
Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Sense, 250
Or simple pride for flatt'ry makes demands,
May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!
Blest be the _Great! _ for those they take away.
And those they left me; for they left me Gay;
Left me to see neglected Genius bloom, 255
Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb:
Of all thy blameless life the sole return
My Verse, and Queenb'ry weeping o'er thy urn.

Oh let me live my own, and die so too!
(To live and die is all I have to do:) 260
Maintain a Poet's dignity and ease,
And see what friends, and read what books I please;
Above a Patron, tho' I condescend
Sometimes to call a minister my friend.
I was not born for Courts or great affairs; 265
I pay my debts, believe, and say my pray'rs;
Can sleep without a Poem in my head;
Nor know, if _Dennis_ be alive or dead.

Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light?
Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write? 270
Has Life no joys for me? or, (to be grave)
Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save?
"I found him close with _Swift_"--'Indeed? no doubt,'
(Cries prating _Balbus_) 'something will come out. '
'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will. 275
'No, such a Genius never can lie still;'
And then for mine obligingly mistakes
The first Lampoon Sir _Will_, or _Bubo_ makes.
Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile,
When ev'ry Coxcomb knows me by my _Style_? 280

Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
Give Virtue scandal, Innocence a fear,
Or from the soft-eyed Virgin steal a tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace, 285
Insults fall'n worth, or Beauty in distress,
Who loves a Lie, lame slander helps about,
Who writes a Libel, or who copies out:
That Fop, whose pride affects a patron's name,
Yet absent, wounds an author's honest fame: 290
Who can _your_ merit _selfishly_ approve.
And show the _sense_ of it without the _love_;
Who has the vanity to call you friend,
Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend;
Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say, 295
And, if he lie not, must at least betray:
Who to the _Dean_, and _silver bell_ can swear,
And sees at _Canons_ what was never there;
Who reads, but with a lust to misapply,
Make Satire a Lampoon, and Fiction, Lie. 300
A lash like mine no honest man shall dread,
But all such babbling blockheads in his stead.