Chapter XV: Prologue: To the Comedy of the Good-Natur'd Man, 1769,

Prest by the load of life, the weary mind Surveys the gen'ral toil of human kind; With cool submission joins the lab'ring train, And social sorrow loses half its pain: Our anxious bard, without complaint, may share This bustling season's epidemick care; Like Caesar's pilot, dignify'd by fate, Tost in one common storm with all the great; Distrest alike the statesman and the wit, When one a borough courts, and one the pit. The busy candidates for pow'r and fame Have hopes, and fears, and wishes, just the same; Disabled both to combat or to fly, Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply. Uncheck'd on both loud rabbles vent their rage, As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale, For that blest year, when all that vote may rail; Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss, Till that glad night, when all that hate may hiss. "This day the powder'd curls and golden coat," Says swelling Crispin, "begg'd a cobbler's vote." "This night our wit," the pert apprentice cries, "Lies at my feet; I hiss him, and he dies." The great, 'tis true, can charm th' electing tribe; The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. Yet, judg'd by those whose voices ne'er were sold, He feels no want of ill persuading gold; But, confident of praise, if praise be due, Trusts, without fear, to merit and to you.