And yet, perhaps, to lose my time this way
Is better far than some mis-spend the day.
The fatal dice-box never fill'd my hand,
By me no orphan weeps his ravish'd land;
What ward can tax me with a deed unjust?
What friend upbraids me with a broken trust?
(Some few except, whom pride and folly blind,
I found them chaff, and give them to the wind)
Like a poor bird, and one of meanest wing,
Around my cage I flutter, hop, and sing.
Unlike in this my brethren of the bays,
I sue for pardon, and they hope for praise;
And when for verse I find my genius warm,
Like infants sent to school, I keep from harm.
What time the dog-star with unbating flames
Cleaves the parch'd earth, and sinks the silver Thames;
While the shrill tenant of the sun-burnt blade,
(A poet he, and singing all his trade)
Tears his small throat, I brave the sultry ray,
And deep-embower'd, escape the rage of day.
Thrice bless'd the man, who, shielded from the beam,
Sings lays melodious to the sacred stream;
Thrice bless'd the stream, who views his banks of flow'rs,
Crown'd with the Muse's or imperial tow'rs,
Whose limpid waters as they onwards glide,
See humble oziers nod, or threat'ning squadrons ride.