 | The Workes of Benjamin Jonson |  |
CXII. To A Weake Gamster In Poetry.
VVith thy small stock, why art thou ventring still.At this so subtile sport: and play'st so ill?
Think'st thou it is meere fortune, that can win?
Or thy rank setting? that thou dar'st put in
Thy all, at all: and what so ere I do,
Art still at that, and think'st to blow me up too?
I cannot for the stage a Drama lay,
Tragick, or Comick; but thou writ'st the play.
I leave thee there, and giving way, entend
An Epick Poeme; thou hast the same end.
I modestly quit that, and think to writ,
Next morne, an Ode: Thou mak'st a song ere night.
I passe to Elegies; Thou meet'st me there:
To Satyres; and thou dost pursue me. Where,
Where shall I scape thee? in an Epigramme?
O, (thou cry'st out) that is thy proper game.
Troth, if it be, I pitty thy ill lucke;
That both for wit, and sense, so oft dost plucke,
And never art encounter'd, I confesse:
Nor scarce dost colour for it, which is lesse.
Pr'y thee, yet save thy rest; give ore in time:
There's no vexation, that can make thee prime.
| The Workes of Benjamin Jonson | |