University of Virginia Library

A Receipt to make a Modern Poet.

Q.
Well then—when will these Railings end?

A.
Lord Sir, as soon as Poets mend.

Q.
But durst thou thus, profanely bold,
Thy Argument so stiffly hold?
Restrain in time this sour ill-Nature,
And dread The Universal Satire.
How durst you say (nay ne'er deny,
And poorly truckle with a Lye)
That ex probato you could show it,
We scarce have now one Perfect Poet.

A.
Why what I think, Sir, still I'll stand to,
And what I say I'll set my Hand to:
But lest uncourteously you think,
I mix ill-Nature with my Ink,
For leaving out Pack, Prior, Pope,
This Answer may suffice I hope—

Q.
Faith Sir, you're very wise I own,
Is Homer then no better known?
Tibullus and old Chaucer too,
I wonder you forget them so.

A.
Those Bards, but now, you heard me name,
And are not These the very same,
Alike their Worth, alike their Fame!
For Nature conscious of the Cost,
(And her Receipt-Poetic lost)
In Prior, Pack, and Pope infuses
Their very transmigrated Muses;
But now since Nature thus knocks under,
Let's see how Art can work a Wonder;
And where the Lion's Skin shall fail,
We'll patch it with the Fox's Tail.
Well then—Imprimis—Recipe—

Q.
But what? How much?—

A.
Why let me see,
First, take, a little Stock of Learning,
Then, a less Portion of Discerning,
Sufficient, if you reach the Rules
(Of Ipse Dixit, and the Schools)
Next take, of Vanity enough,
Modest-Assurance, Irish proof;
Then frugally to spare your Wit,
Take something that resembles it;
And to prevent a thousand things
Which Judgment to my Fancy brings,
This one Ingredient is the best,
(Nay faith 'tis worth e'en all the rest,
For I have known it oft prevail
Where Art and stronger Nature fail)
I mean a very good Estate,
But 'tis so hard to get of late!
To this infuse a Knack of Rhyming,
Then set the Whirligig a chyming.
These, nicely mix, but if you lack more,
You'll find 'em all summ'd up in Blackmore.