THE
Farmer's Goose, who in the Stubble,
Has
fed without Restraint, or Trouble;
Grown
fat with Corn and Sitting still,
Can
scarce get o'er the Barn-Door Sill:
And
hardly waddles forth, to cool
Her
Belly in the neighb'ring Pool:
Nor
loudly cackles at the Door;
For
Cackling shews the Goose is poor.
But
when she must be turn'd to graze,
And
round the barren Common strays,
Hard
Exercise, and harder Fare
Soon
make my Dame grow lank and spare:
Her
Body light, she tries her Wings,
And
scorns the Ground, and upward springs,
While
all the Parish, as she flies,
Hear
Sounds harmonious from the Skies.
Such
is the Poet, fresh in Pay,
(The
third Night's Profits of his Play;)
His
Morning-Draughts 'till Noon can swill,
Among
his Brethren of the Quill:
With
good Roast Beef his Belly full,
Grown
lazy, foggy, fat, and dull:
Deep
sunk in Plenty, and Delight,
What
Poet e'er could take his Flight?
Or
stuff'd with Phlegm up to the Throat,
What
Poet e'er could sing a Note?
Nor
Pegasus could bear the Load,
Along
the high celestial Road;
The
Steed, oppress'd, would break his Girth,
To
raise the Lumber from the Earth.
But,
view him in another Scene,
When
all his Drink is Hippocrene,
His
Money spent, his Patrons fail,
His
Credit out for Cheese and Ale;
His
Two-Year's Coat so smooth and bare,
Through
ev'ry Thread it lets in Air;
With
hungry Meals his Body pin'd,
His
Guts and Belly full of Wind;
And,
like a Jockey for a Race,
His
Flesh brought down to Flying-Case:
Now
his exalted Spirit loaths
Incumbrances
of Food and Cloaths;
And
up he rises like a Vapour,
Supported
high on Wings of Paper;
He
singing flies, and flying sings,
While
from below all Grub-street rings.