In papers fill'd with party rage.
But if their riches spoil their vein,
Ye Muses! make them poor again. 60

Now bring the weapon, yonder blade,
With which my tuneful pens are made.
I strike the scales that arm thee round,
And twice and thrice I print the wound;
The sacred altar floats with red;
And now he dies, and now he's dead.

How like the son of Jove I stand,
This Hydra stretch'd beneath my hand!
Lay bare the monster's entrails here,
To see what dangers threat the year: 70
Ye gods! what sonnets on a wench!
What lean translations out of French!
'Tis plain, this lobe is so unsound,
S-- prints before the months go round.

But hold, before I close the scene,
The sacred altar should be clean.
Oh, had I Shadwell's[1] second bays,
Or, Tate![2] thy pert and humble lays!
(Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow
I never miss'd your works till now)
I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine, 80
(That only way you please the Nine)
But since I chance to want these two,
I'll make the songs of Durfey[3] do.