'Twas thus, if man with woman we compare, The wise Athenian cross'd a glittering fair; 60 Unmoved by tongues and sights, he walk'd the place, Through tape, toys, tinsel, gimp, perfume, and lace; Then bends from Mars's hill his awful eyes, And 'What a world I never want!' he cries; But cries unheard: for Folly will be free. So parts the buzzing gaudy crowd, and he: As careless he for them, as they for him; He wrapt in wisdom, and they whirl'd by whim
Come hither, boy, we'll hunt to-day The book-worm, ravening beast of prey! Produced by parent Earth, at odds (As Fame reports it) with the gods. Him frantic Hunger wildly drives Against a thousand authors' lives: Through all the fields of Wit he flies; Dreadful his head with clustering eyes, With horns without, and tusks within, And scales to serve him for a skin. 10 Observe him nearly, lest he climb To wound the bards of ancient time, Or down the vale of Fancy go, To tear some modern wretch below: On every corner fix thine eye, Or, ten to one, he slips thee by.
See where his teeth a passage eat: We'll rouse him from the deep retreat. But who the shelter's forced to give? 'Tis sacred Virgil, as I live! 20 From leaf to leaf, from song to song, He draws the tadpole form along, He mounts the gilded edge before, He's up, he scuds the cover o'er, He turns, he doubles, there he pass'd, And here we have him, caught at last.
Insatiate brute, whose teeth abuse The sweetest servants of the Muse! --Nay, never offer to deny, I took thee in the act to fly-- 30 His roses nipp'd in every page, My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage. By thee my Ovid wounded lies; By thee my Lesbia's sparrow dies: Thy rabid teeth have half destroy'd The work of love in Biddy Floyd; They rent Belinda's locks away, And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay. For all, for every single deed, Relentless Justice bids thee bleed. 40 Then fall a victim to the Nine, Myself the priest, my desk the shrine.
Bring Homer, Virgil, Tasso near, To pile a sacred altar here; Hold, boy, thy hand outruns thy wit, You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ; You reach'd me Philips' rustic strain; Pray take your mortal bards again.
Come, bind the victim,--there he lies, And here between his numerous eyes 50 This venerable dust I lay, From manuscripts just swept away.