Not Fortune's Worshipper, nor Fashion's Fool,
Nor Lucre's Madman, nor Ambition's Tool,
Nor proud, nor servile, be one Poet's praise
That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways;
That Flatt'ry, ev'n to Kings, he held a shame,
And thought a Lye in Verse or Prose the same:
In Fancy's Maze that wand'ring not too long,
He stoop'd to Truth, and moraliz'd his song:
That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end,
He stood the furious Foe, the timid Friend,
The damning Critic, half-approving Wit,
The Coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit;
Laugh'd at the loss of Friends he never had,
The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad;
The Tales of Vengeance; Lyes so oft o'erthrown;
The imputed Trash, the Dulness not his own;
The Morals blacken'd when the Writings scape;
The libel'd Person, and the pictur'd Shape;
Th' Abuse on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, spread,
A Friend in Exile, or a Father, dead;
The Whisper that to Greatness still too near,
Perhaps, yet vibrates on his SOVEREIGN'S Ear —
Welcome for thee, fair Virtue! all the past:
For thee, fair Virtue! welcome ev'n the