Is there no Patron to protect the Muse,
And fence for Her  barren Soil?
To every Labour its Reward accrues,
And they are sure of Bread who swink and moil;
But a fell Tribe  despoil,
As ruthless Wasps oft rob the painful Bee:
Thus while the Laws not guard that noblest Toil,
Ne for the Muses other Meed decree,
They praised are alone, and starve right merrily.