Classic Poem

Necessity, by Chance one Day
Encount'ring Pride, was heard to say:
" To you alone, it is we owe
" That Mankind sink beneath their Woe;
" You're so implanted in their Nature,
" That Man's become a helpless Creature
" In my dire Circuit, oft' I've known
" A slight Misfortune, mortal grown;
" By thy curst Instinct, bar'd from striving
" By honest Means to get a Living.
" You say, Industry is a less'ning Thing,
" Which makes Contempt in great Folks spring.
" Where Fortune frowns, I still attend,
" But when Humility's their Friend,
" Some Method I am apt to point,
" To baffle their Distress and Want:
" But wheresoe'er you're known to reign,
" I there Advice bestow in vain. "

Pride, rais'd her haughty Head on high,
And made this scornful short Reply
Said she, " When Folks are nobly born,
" To Labour gains immortal Scorn. "

While thus they parley'd, they perceiv'd
A Nymph, by adverse Fortune griev'd.
Necessity address'd her straight,
And by her Elbow took her Seat;
While sullen Pride, with austere Look,
Another Seat, in Silence took.
At length, Invention's Mother broke
The awful Silence, and thus spoke:

" Say, Daughter, why oppress'd with Care?
" Ha'n't bount'ous Nature, to your Share
" Some Talent giv'n? some Means bestow'd
" To prop Affliction's crushing Load? "

" Alas! reply'd the Nymph, I find
" To scrible Verses I'm inclin'd;
" Beneath my Pen, dictating Woe
" First bid pathetic Numbers flow:
" But in an Age, where Wit and Sense
" In Thousands shine! I've no Pretence.
" And Woman's Wit, like mine unlearn'd,
" By many will have Faults discern'd. "

With angry Frown, said Pride at Length,
Who to be silent wanted Strength,
" Consider, Madam! who you are,
" One of a high, distinguish'd Sphere.
" Let me, a Friend, for once advise you,
" Don't write — The Beau-Monde will despise " you;
" Turn Author — let it not be known,
" Nobility will on you frown,
" And then your Scheme is overthrown.

" Pray who art thou? she strait reply'd,
" If I mistake not, you are Pride,
" From Satan sprung, of his damn'd Train,
" Source of his Fall, and Height'ner of his Pain.
" I know thee not, nor wou'd I know
" One, that enhances human Woe; "
I scorn to do an Action base,
Lest Conscience shou'd my Woes encrease;
But ne'er shall be, above the Task,
To work for Bread — tho' not to ask.