Proud, as  on his forked hill,
Sate full-blown  puff'd by ev'ry quill;
Fed with soft Dedication all day long,
and he went hand in hand in song.
His Library, (where Busts of Poets dead
And a true  stood without a head)
Receiv'd of Wits an undistinguish'd race,
Who first his Judgment ask'd, and then a Place:
Much they extoll'd the Pictures, much the Seat,
And flatter'd ev'ry day, and some days eat:
Till grown more frugal in his riper days,
He pay'd some Bards with Port, and some with Praise,
To some a dry Rehearsal was assign'd,
And others (harder still) he pay'd in kind.