fountain does complain, And softly steals in many windings down, As loth to see the hated court and town; And murmurs as she glides away. 

      X In this new happy scene Are nobler subjects for your learned pen; Here we expect from you More than your predecessor Adam knew; Whatever moves our wonder, or our sport, Whatever serves for innocent emblems of the court; How that which we a kernel see,      (Whose well-compacted forms escape the light, Unpierced by the blunt rays of sight,)          Shall ere long grow into a tree; Whence takes it its increase, and whence its birth, Or from the sun, or from the air, or from the earth, Where all the fruitful atoms lie; How some go downward to the root, Some more ambitious upwards fly, And form the leaves, the branches, and the fruit. You strove to cultivate a barren court in vain, Your garden's better worth your nobler pain, Here mankind fell, and hence must rise again. 

      XI Shall I believe a spirit so divine Was cast in the same mould with mine? Why then does Nature so unjustly share Among her elder sons the whole estate, And all her jewels and her plate?      Poor we! cadets of Heaven, not worth her care, Take up at best with lumber and the leavings of a fare:            Some she binds 'prentice to the spade, Some to the drudgery of a trade:      Some she does to Egyptian bondage draw, Bids us make bricks, yet sends us to look out for straw:            Some she condemns for life to try To dig the leaden mines of deep philosophy:      Me she has to the Muse's galleys tied:      In vain I strive to cross the spacious main, In vain I tug and pull the oar; And when I almost reach the shore, Straight the Muse turns the helm, and I launch out again:            And yet, to feed my pride, Whene'er I mourn, stops my complaining breath, With promise of a mad reversion after death. 

      XII Then, Sir, accept this worthless verse, The tribute of an humble Muse,      'Tis all the portion of my niggard stars; Nature the hidden spark did at my birth infuse, And kindled first with indolence and ease; And since too oft debauch'd by praise,      'Tis now grown an incurable disease:      In vain to quench this foolish fire I try In wisdom and philosophy:          In vain all wholesome herbs I sow, Where nought but weeds will grow Whate'er I plant (like corn on barren earth)            

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