To You, My Lord, my Muse her Tribute pays
Of various Verse, in various rude Essays;
To You, she first addres'd her early Voice,
By Inclination led, and fix'd by Choice;
To you, on whose Indulgence she depends,
Her few collected Lays she now commends.
By no one Measure bound, her Numbers range,
And unresolv'd in Choice, delight in Change;
Her Songs to no distinguish'd Fame aspire,
For, now, she tries the Reed, anon, attempts the Lyre;
In high Parnassus she no Birthright claims,
Nor drinks deep Draughts of Heliconian Streams
Yet near the sacred Mount she loves to rove,
Visits the Springs, and hovers round the Grove.
She knows what Dangers wait too bold a Flight,
And fears to fall from an Icarian Height:
Yet, she admires the Wing that safely soars,
At Distance follows, and its Track adores,
She knows what Room, what Force, the Swan requires,
Whose tow'ring Head above the Clouds aspires,
And knows as well, it is Your Lowest Praise,
Such Heights to reach with equal Strength and Ease.

O had Your Genius been to Leisure born,
And not more bound to aid us, than adorn!
Albion in Verse with ancient Greece had vy'd,
And gain'd alone a Fame, which, there, seven States divide.
But such, ev'n such Renown, too dear had cost,
Had we the Patriot in the Poet lost,
A true Poetic State we had deplor'd,
Had not Your Ministry our Coin restor'd.

But still, my Lord, tho' Your Exalted Name
Stands foremost in the fairest LisTof Fame,
Tho' Your Ambition ends in Public Good,
(A Virtue lineal to Your House and Blood:)
Yet think not meanly of Your other Praise,
Not slight the Trophies which the Muses raise.
How oft, a Patriot's best laid Schemes we find
By Party cross'd, or Faction undermin'd!
If he succeed he undergoes this Lot,
The Good receiv'd, the Giver is forgot,
But Honours which from Verse their Source derive,
Shall both surmount Detraction, and survive:
And Poets have unquestion'd Right to claim,
If not the Greatest, the most Lasting Name.