Verse comes from Heav'n, like inward light; Mere human pains can ne'er come by 't:
The god, not we, the poem makes; We only tell folks what he speaks. Hence when anatomists discourse, How like brutes' organs are to ours; They grant, if higher powers think fit, A bear might soon be made a wit; And that for any thing in nature,
Pigs might squeak love-odes, dogs bark satire. Memnon, though stone, was counted vocal; But 'twas the god, meanwhile, that spoke all. Rome oft has heard a cross haranguing, With prompting priest behind the hanging: The wooden head resolv'd the question; While you and Pettis help'd the jest on.
Your crabbed rogues, that read Lucretius Are against gods, you know; and teach us, The god makes not the poet; but The thesis, vice-versâ put,
Should Hebrew-wise be understood; And means, the poet makes the god.
Egyptian gard'ners thus are said to Have set the leeks they after pray'd to; And Romish bakers praise the deity They chipp'd, while yet in its paniety. That when you poets swear and cry, The god inspires; I rave, I die; If inward wind does truly swell ye, 'T must be the colic in your belly:
That writing is but just like dice; And lucky maids make people wise: That jumbled words, if fortune throw 'em, Shall, well as Dryden, form a poem ; Or make a speech, correct and witty, As you know who at the committee. So atoms dancing round the centre, They urge, made all things at a venture. But granting matters should be spoke By method, rather than by luck; This may confine their younger styles, Whom Dryden pedagogues at Will's: But never could be meant to tie Authentic wits, like you and I:
For as young children, who are try'd in Go-carts, to keep their steps from sliding; When members knit, and legs grow stronger, Make use of such machine no longer;
But leap pro libitu, and scout On horse call'd hobby, or without: So when at school we first declaim, Old Busby walks us in a theme, Whose props support our infant vein, And help the rickets in the brain : But when our souls their force dilate, And thoughts grow up to wit's estate; In verse or prose, we write or chat, Not sixpence matter upon what.
'Tis not how well an author says; But 'tis how much, that gathers praise.
Tonson, who is himself a wit,
Counts writers' merits by the sheet.
Thus each should down with all he thinks, As boys eat bread, to fill up chinks.
Kind Sir, I should be glad to see you; I hope y' are well; so God be wi' you ; Was all I thought at first to write: But things, since then, are alter'd quite ; Fancies flew in, and Muse flies high; So God knows when my clack will lie : I must, Sir, prattle on, as afore, And beg your pardon yet this half-hour. So at pure barn of loud Non-con, Where with my grannam I have gone, When Lobb had sifted all his text, And I well hop'd the pudding next; NOW TO APPLY, has plagued me more, Than all his villain cant before.
For your religion, first, of her
Your friends do sav'ry things aver:
They say, she's honest, as your claret,
Not sour'd with cant, nor stumm'd with merit:
Your chamber is the sole retreat
Of chaplains every Sunday night: Of grace, no doubt, a certain sign, When layman herds with man divine: For if their fame be justly great, Who would no Popish nuncio treat; That his is greater, we must grant,
Who will treat nuncios Protestant.
One single positive weighs more, You know, than negatives a score.
In politics, I hear, you're stanch, Directly bent against the French; Deny to have your free-born toe Dragoon'd into a wooden shoe: Are in no plots; but fairly drive at The public welfare, in your private: And will, for England's glory, try Turks, Jews, and Jesuits to defy, And keep your places till you die.
For me, whom wand'ring Fortune threw From what I lov'd, the town and you ; Let me just tell you how my time is Past in a country-life.-Imprimis, As soon as Phoebus' rays inspect us, First, Sir, I read, and then I breakfast; So on, till foresaid god does set,
I sometimes study, sometimes eat. Thus, of your heroes and brave boys, With whom old Homer makes such noise,
The greatest actions I can find,
Are, that they did their work, and din'd. The books of which I'm chiefly fond, Are such, as you have whilom conn'd; That treat of China's civil law,
And subjects' rights in Golconda;
Of highway-elephants at Ceylan,
That rob in clans, like men o' th' Highland; Of apes that storm, or keep a town,
As well almost as count Lauzun ; Of unicorns and aligators,
Elks, mermaids, mummies, witches, satyrs, And twenty other stranger matters;
Which, though they're things I've no concern in, Make all our grooms admire my learning.
Critics I read on other men,
And hypers upon them again;
From whose remarks I give opinion
On twenty books, yet ne'er look in one. Then all your wits, that fleer and sham, Down from Don Quixote to Tom Tram; From whom I jests and puns purloin, And slily put them off for mine: Fond to be thought a country wit: The rest, when fate and you think fit. Sometimes I climb my mare, and kick her To bottled ale, and country vicar; Sometimes at Stamford take a quart,
Squire Shephard's health,-with all my heart. Thus, without much delight, or grief,
I fool away an idle life;
Till Shadwell from the town retires, (Chok'd up with fame and sea-coal fires), To bless the wood with peaceful lyric; Then hey for praise and panegyric; Justice restor❜d, and nations freed,
And wreaths round William's glorious head.
« הקודםהמשך » |