University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
The Works of John Hall-Stevenson

... Corrected and Enlarged. With Several Original Poems, Now First Printed, and Explanatory Notes. In Three Volumes

collapse sectionI. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
  
 VIII. 
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
collapse sectionII. 
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 XX. 
 XXI. 
 XXII. 
 XXIII. 
 XXIV. 
 XXV. 
 XXVI. 
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse sectionIII. 
collapse section 
  
THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY TO HIMSELF
  
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
collapse section 
  
collapse sectionIV. 
 I. 
  
collapse section 
  
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
  
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
collapse sectionIII. 
  
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
  
 XI. 
collapse section 
  
  
  


vii

THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY TO HIMSELF

Free from all pernicious vice,
Yet not so scrupulously good,
To want a comfortable spice
To warm a sober Christian's blood.
The sin of Harlotry and Keeping,
Is that which I can least excuse,
That of cohabiting and sleeping,
With an abandon'd common Muse.
More like a Muse's poor toad-eater;
A trollop with a flippant air,
Without one amiable feature,
Or any graces to her share.
You tell me, if I needs must print,
You'll not oppose my foolish will,
And bid me take a sober hint
From sober folks at Strawberry-hill.
Stand forth like them, produce yourself,
Be elegantly bound and letter'd,
Be wise, like them, nor quit your shelf,
But there remain, for ever fetter'd.

viii

I do not print to get a name;
As Trublet says, I am none of those;
I only print, because my aim
Is happiness, whilst I compose:
Composing gives us no delight,
Unless we mean to publish what we write.
Scribbling, like Praying, 's an employment,
In which you think yourself a bubble,
Without some prospect of enjoyment,
And satisfaction for your trouble;
And though your hopes at last prove vain,
If you have been amus'd, 'twas so much gain.
If you still teaze me, and persist
That publishing shews a vain heart,
The Songsters upon Dodsley's list
Shall be call'd in to take my part.
And as they strip a lad quite bare,
After they've coax'd him from his play,
Then lay him down, and cut and pare
All his impediments away:
And as the lad without his leave
Is made an excellent Musician,

ix

By a manœuvre I conceive
As nice as Tristram's Circumcision:
So, though you only just can scrape
Among the Fiddlers of the Nine,
They'll make you drunker than an ape,
And make you think you fiddle fine.