The Works of Richard Owen Cambridge :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Works of Richard Owen Cambridge

Including several pieces never before published: with an account of his life and character, by his son, George Owen Cambridge

Cambridge, Richard Owen (1717-1802)

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THE DANGER OF WRITING VERSE;

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A YOUNG POET AND HIS FRIEND.

ADDRESSED TO SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS, KNT. Occasioned by his satirical Ode upon Mr. Hussey's Marriage with the Duchess of Manchester; which gave so much personal Offence.

Quem tu, Melpomene, semel
Nascentem placido lumine videris,
Illum non labor Isthmius
Clarabit pugilem; non equus impiger
Curru ducet Achaico
Victorem; neque res bellica Deliis
Ornatum foliis ducem,
Quod regum tumidas contuderit minas,
Ostendet Capitolio.
Hor. Od. iii.

FRIEND.
THE Man at whose birth Melpomene smil'd,
Who fancies forsooth he 's Apollo's own child,
In the country indulges an indolent ease,
And will make neither Sportsman nor Justice of Peace.

POET.
Will our Poet succeed any better in town?
Is he likely to rise by the Sword or the Gown?

FRIEND.
Lackaday sir, the Muse has so addled his pate,
That he finds himself fit for no post in the state.

POET.
But Horace, your friend, though his sons you abuse,
Shews the dignity, value, and charms of the Muse:

FRIEND.
'Tis true, sir, but there he has chose to conceal,
What I, for the sake of young Bards, shall reveal:
Then know, this profession but tends to expose
To the fear of your friends, the revenge of your foes.
Will the man, by your Verses once injur'd, forgive,
Tho' the cause of his pain shou'd no longer survive?
All your friends tho' unhurt, you observe, are perplext
With a jealous concern, lest their turn should be next.

POET.
But, good sir, what need that the Bard must abuse?
Let him sport with an innocent Pastoral Muse:

FRIEND.
I grant, and the World will allow there 's no need;
You may chuse what you'll write, but they 'll chuse what they read;

And, dear ignorant Friend, to make short of the matter,
There's nothing will please 'em but personal satire:
Nor fancy the world will e'er call for your rhimes,
Unless they believe 'em a touch on the times;
Of this truth artful Pope may an instance afford,
Who nam'd his late Work from the Year of our Lord.
This Horace confest: for that Poet divine,
Who at first wrote his Odes to his mistress and wine,
Soon with Character fill'd the satyrical page,
And adapted his Muse to the taste of the age.
But satire 's a thing, that 'tis dang'rous to deal in,
For tho' many want taste, yet there 's none but has feeling.
This duly consider'd, the Poet disclaim,
Nor let Horace inveigle your fancy with fame;
For the reason why he can unenvied divert us,
Is because we are sure he 's unable to hurt us;
His Characters touch not the Moderns; and no man
Sees himself or his nation expos'd in a Roman:
Yet were he alive, I should think it, tho' loth,
My duty to give this advice to you both.