The muses write for glory, not for gold,
'Tis far beneath their nature to be sold:
The greatest gain is scorn'd, but as it serves
To speak a sense of what the muse deserves;
The muse which from her Lansdowne fears no wrong,
Best judge, as well as subject, of her song.
Should this great theme allure me further still,
And I presume to use your patience ill,
The world would plead my cause, and none but you
Will take disgust at what I now pursue:
Since what is mean my muse can't raise, I'll choose
A theme that's able to exalt my muse.
For who, not void of thought, can Granville name,
Without a spark of his immortal flame?
Whether we seek the patriot, or the friend,
Let Bolingbroke, let Anna recommend;
Whether we choose to love or to admire,
You melt the tender, and th'ambitious fire.
Such native graces without thought abound,
And such familiar glories spread around,
As more incline the stander by to raise
His value for himself, than you to praise.
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