A crowded house, forsooth, gives you delight!

Look at your patrons as you should,

You’ll find them one half cold, and one half crude.

One leaves the play to spend the night

Upon a wench’s breast in wild delight;

Another sets him down to cards, or calls

For rattling dice, or clicking billiard balls.

For such like hearers, and for ends like these

Why should a bard the gentle Muses tease?

I tell you, give them more, and ever more, and still

A little more, if you would prove your skill.

And since they can’t discern the finer quality,

Confound them with broad sweep of triviality—

But what’s the matter?—pain or ravishment?

Poet.

Poet.

If such your service, you must be content

With other servants who will take your pay!

Shall then the bard his noblest right betray?

The right of man, which Nature’s gift imparts,

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