'I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers'~Shakespeare

'Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
There are as mad, abandon'd critics too,'~Pope.


Still must I hear? -- shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl 
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, 
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews 
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse? 
Prepare for rhyme -- I'll publish, right or wrong: 
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. 

O nature's noblest gift -- my grey goose-quill! 
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, 
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, 
That mighty instrument of little men! 
The pen! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes 
Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose, 
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride, 
The lover's solace, and the author's pride. 
What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise! 
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise! 
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, 
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write. 
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen! 
Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 
Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be free; 
Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me: 
Then let us soar today, no common theme, 
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream 
Inspires -- our path, though full of thorns, is plain; 
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. 

When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway, 
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey; 
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, 
Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime; 
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, 
And weigh their justice in a golden scale; 
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, 
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, 
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe, 
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. 

Such is the force of wit! but not belong 
To me the arrows of satiric song; 
The royal vices of our age demand 
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 
Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, 
And yield at least amusement in the race: 
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame; 
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game. 
Speed, Pegasus! -- ye strains of great and small, 
Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all! 
I too can scrawl, and once upon a time 
I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme, 
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame; 
I printed -- older children do the same. 
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; 
A book's a book, although there's nothing in't. 
Not that a title's sounding charm can save 
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave: 
This Lambe must own, since his patrician name 
Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame. 
No matter, George continues still to write, 
Though now the name is veil'd from public sight. 
Moved by the great example, I pursue 
The self-same road, but make my own review: 
Not seek great Jeffrey's, yet, like him, will be 
Self-constituted judge of poesy. 

A man must serve his time to every trade 
Save censure -- critics all are ready made. 
Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote, 
With just enough of learning to misquote; 
A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault; 
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt; 
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet, 
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: 
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit; 
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit; 
Care not for feeling -- pass you proper jest, 
And stand a critic, hated yet carress'd. 

And shall we own such judgment? no -- as soon 
Seek roses in December -- ice in June; 
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; 
Believe a woman or an epitaph, 
Or any other thing that's false, before 
You trust in critics, who themselves are sore; 
Or yield one single thought to be misled 
By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian head. 
To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced, 
Combined usurpers on the throne of taste; 
To these, when authors bend in humble awe, 
And hail their voice as truth, their word as law -- 
While these are censors, 't would be sin to spare; 
While such are critics, why should I forebear? 
But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 
'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun: 
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, 
Our bards and censors are so much alike. 

Then should you ask me, why I venture o'er 
The path which Pope and Gifford trod before; 
If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed; 
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 
'But hold!' exclaims a friend, 'here's come neglect: 
This -- that -- and t'other line seem incorrect.' 
What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got, 
And c