Be wise, Vincenna, and the court forsake;
  Our fortunes there, nor thou, nor I, shall make. 
  Even men of merit, ere their point they gain,
  In hardy service make a long campaign;
  Most manfully besiege the patron’s gate,
  And oft repulsed, as oft attack the great
  With painful art, and application warm. 
  And take, at last, some little place by storm;
  Enough to keep two shoes on Sunday clean,
  And starve upon discreetly, in Sheer-Lane. 
  Already this thy fortune can afford;
  Then starve without the favour of my lord. 
  ’Tis true, great fortunes some great men confer,
  But often, even in doing right, they err: 
  From caprice, not from choice, their favours come: 
  They give, but think it toil to know to whom: 
  The man that’s nearest, yawning, they advance: 
  ’Tis inhumanity to bless by chance. 
  If merit sues, and greatness is so loth
  To break its downy trance, I pity both.

    Behold the masquerade’s fantastic scene! 
  The Legislature join’d with Drury-Lane! 
  When Britain calls, th’ embroider’d patriots run,
  And serve their country—­if the dance is done. 
  “Are we not then allow’d to be polite?”
  Yes, doubtless; but first set your notions right. 
  Worth, of politeness is the needful ground;
  Where that is wanting, this can ne’er be found. 
  Triflers not even in trifles can excel;
  ’Tis solid bodies only polish well.

    Great, chosen prophet! for these latter days,
  To turn a willing world from righteous ways! 
  Well, Heydegger, dost thou thy master serve;
  Well has he seen his servant should not starve,
  Thou to his name hast splendid temples raised
  In various forms of worship seen him prais’d,
  Gaudy devotion, like a Roman, shown,
  And sung sweet anthems in a tongue unknown. 
  Inferior offerings to thy god of vice
  Are duly paid, in fiddles, cards, and dice;
  Thy sacrifice supreme, an hundred maids! 
  That solemn rite of midnight masquerades!

    Though bold these truths, thou, Muse, with truths like these,
  Wilt none offend, whom ’tis a praise to please;
  Let others flatter to be flatter’d, thou
  Like just tribunals, bend an awful brow. 
  How terrible it were to common-sense,
  To write a satire, which gave none offence! 
  And, since from life I take the draughts you see. 
  If men dislike them, do they censure me? 
  The fool, and knave, ’tis glorious to offend,
  And Godlike an attempt the world to mend,
  The world, where lucky throws to blockheads fall,
  Knaves know the game, and honest men pay all. 
    How hard for real worth to gain its price! 
  A man shall make his fortune in a trice,
  If blest with pliant, though but slender, sense,
  Feign’d modesty, and real impudence: 
  A supple knee, smooth tongue, an easy grace. 
  A curse within, a smile upon his face;
  A beauteous sister, or convenient wife,
  Are prizes in the lottery of life;
  Genius and Virtue they will soon defeat,
  And lodge you in the bosom of the great. 
  To merit, is but to provide a pain
  For men’s refusing what you ought to gain.