To The Famishing Bard

If thou must eat, ferocious bard!
Elsewhere importune for a dinner;
Long thou may pray here, nor be heard,
And praying makes thee but the thinner.
Do like the lank, lean, ghostly sinner,
That here presumes to give advice,
Ne'er court the Muse for meat—to win her,
E'en starve, and glory in the price.

Apollo knows that three long weeks,
And pale the prospect yet appears,
On crusts of hard brown bread and leeks,
I've lived, and may for rolling years;
Yet still the Muse most kindly cheers
Each craving day and yawning night,
Soft whisp'ring ever in my ears,
"Be Fame thy belly's chief delight."

Through future ages then thy name,
The immortal goddess shall preserve;
Be this thy dear, thy envied claim,
For this extend thy ev'ry nerve;
And should that world thou strains to serve,
A ling'ring carcase food refuse,
Contemn their baseness, boldly starve,
And die a martyr for the Muse.

More consolation I might pour,
But, hark! the tempest, how it blows!
The inconstant blast, with thund'ring roar
O'er chimney tops more furious grows.
The winter drop, prone from my nose,
Hangs glist'ring in the candle's beam,
And want and sleep's uniting throes,
Here force me to forsake my theme.