Classic Poem

 Imaginary Good, or true,
Immortal Fame, thee all persue;
Thee make their End in all they do!

 For thee th' intrepid Sons of Mars
Rush forth impetuous to the Wars;
Pleas'd, if thou deign to count their Scars.

 Whatever Thoughts the Learn'd impart,
In any Age, in any Art,
Thou art the Prize they have at Heart.

 Tho' Want upon the Poet stares,
For love of Verse and Thee, he dares
Slight all the frightful Forms it wears.

 Yet what thou art we thus admire,
And why at thee Mankind aspire,
None can determine, all enquire.

 If mere Delusion of the Mind,
Whence is the Race of human kind
To court a Shadow thus inclin'd?

 Or if thou art a real Good,
How can thy Worth be understood,
Thro' Misery alone persu'd?

 Can all the Wreaths that crown his Head,
And magnifie the Poet dead,
Attone for Homer 's Want of Bread?

 Yet who would not a Beggar be
To grow as much renown'd as he?
Methinks I wish 'twere offer'd me!

 But Homer shines a single Name;
As much thy Darling since, O Fame!
As once the Muses'—in his Flame.

 On Ages since could he but look,
He'd smile to think this single Hook
Has such a Croud of Witlings took.

 Above the rest 'twere sweet Surprize,
To see majestic Virgil rise,
And daring Milton climb the Skies!

 His Seconds these shall still remain!
Time shall their Dignity maintain;
And Ignorance oppose in vain!

 In vain we weaker Mortals try
To pluck such Bays, to soar so high!
Our Writings like ourselves must die——

 What little Favour some procure,
Thou art so nice, they scarce are sure
It shall from Year to Year endure.

 Those who thy Favour most engage,
But gain th' Applauses of an Age,
Then their Remembrance quits the Stage.

 And what's an Age's empty Praise,
If Want oppress us all our Days,
While we the fleeting Structure raise?

 Since but a Few ev'n this can gain,
For a long Life, worn out in Pain,
Strange, that so many toil in vain!

 Ev'n I, who know myself so weak,
Th' unequal Labour can't forsake:
Thy fancy'd Charms so strongly take.

  Philander too approves my Song,
And calls it graceful, bold and strong;
His Judgment leads the Muse along.

 Not quite in vain my Time I spend,
Tho' with my Life these Trifles end—
'Tis noble now to please a Friend,

 Thou art at least a specious Bait;
And if thou wantest aught in Weight,
There's something sweet in the Deceit.