XXII.
For why? They are the Quintessence of All,
The Growth of labouring Time, and slow increast;
Unless, as seldom chances, it should fall,
That mighty Patrons the coy Sisters call
Up to the Sun-shine of uncumber'd Ease,
Where no rude Care the mounting Thought may thrall,
And where they nothing have to do but please:
Ah, gracious God! thou know'st they ask no other Fees.
XXIII.
But now, alas! we live too late in Time:
Our Patrons now even grudge that little Claim,
Except to such as sleek the soothing Rhyme;
And yet, forsooth, they wear Mæcenas' Name,
Poor Sons of puft-up Vanity, not Fame!
Unbroken Spirits, chear! still, still remains
Th' Eternal Patron, Liberty; whose Flame,
While she protects, inspired the noblest Strains.
The best, and sweetest far, are Toil-created Gains.
XXIV.
