The Venal Muse

<title>The Venal Muse</title>
<h1>The Venal Muse</h1>
<pre>
  Oh Muse of my heart—so fond of palaces old,
  Wilt have—when New Year speeds its wintry blast,
  Amid those tedious nights, with snow o'ercast,
  A log to warm thy feet, benumbed with cold?

  Wilt thou thy marbled shoulders then revive
  With nightly rays that through thy shutters peep?
  And—void thy purse and void thy palace—reap
  A golden hoard within some azure hive?

  Thou must, to earn thy daily bread, each night,
  Suspend the censer like an acolyte,
  Te-Deums sing, with sanctimonious ease,

  Or as a famished mountebank, with jokes obscene
  Essay to lull the vulgar rabble's spleen;
  Thy laughter soaked in tears which no one sees.
</pre>