Book II, Satire 2

TO what end did our lauish auncestours,
Erect of old these stately piles of ours?
For thred-bare clearks, and for the ragged Muse
Whom better fit some cotes of sad secluse?
Blush niggard Age, and be asham'd to see,
These monuments of wiser ancestrie.
And ye faire heapes the Muses sacred shrines,
(In spight of time and enuious repines)
Stand still and flourish till the worlds last day,
Vpbrayding it with former loues decay.
Here may you Muses, our deare Soneraignes,
Scorne each base Lordling euer you disdaines,
And euerie peasant churle, whose smokie roofe
Denied harbour for your deare behoofe.
Scorne ye the world before it do complaine,
And scorne the world that scorneth you againe.
And scorne contempt it selfe that doth incite
Each single-sold Squire to set you at so light.
What needes me care for anie bookish skill,
To blot white papers with my restlesse quill:
Or poare on painted leaues: or beat my braine
With far-fetch thought, or to consume in vaine
In latter Euen, or midst of winter nights,
Ill sinelling oyles, or some still-watching lights.
Let them that meane by bookish buisinesse
To earne their bread: or hopen to professe
Their hard got skill: let them alone for mee;
Busie their braines with deeper bookerie.
Great gaines shall bide you sure, when ye haue spent
A thousand Lamps: and thousand Reames haue rent
Of needlesse papers, and a thousand nights
Haue burned out with costly candle lights.
Ye palish ghosts of Athens; when at last,
Your patrimonie spent in witlesse wast,
Your friends all wearie, and your spirits spent,
Ye may your fortunes seeke: and be forwent