The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd ... To Which is Prefixed an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By W. Kenrick ... In Two Volumes |
 | I. |
 |
EPISTLE TO THE SAME, 1757. |
|
|
| II. |
 | The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd |  |
101
EPISTLE TO THE SAME, 1757.
Has my good dame a wicked child?
It takes the gentler name of wild.
If chests he breaks, if locks he picks,
'Tis nothing more than youthful tricks.
The mother's fondness stamps it merit,
For vices are a sign of spirit.
It takes the gentler name of wild.
If chests he breaks, if locks he picks,
'Tis nothing more than youthful tricks.
The mother's fondness stamps it merit,
For vices are a sign of spirit.
Say, do the neighbours think the same
With the good old indulgent dame?
Cries gossip Prate, “I hear with grief
“My neighbour's son's an arrant thief.
“Nay, cou'd you think it, I am told,
“He stole five guineas, all in gold.
“You know the youth was always wild—
“He got his father's maid with child;
“And robb'd his master, to defray
“The money he had lost at play.
“All means to save him now must fail.
“What can it end in?—In a jail.”
With the good old indulgent dame?
Cries gossip Prate, “I hear with grief
“My neighbour's son's an arrant thief.
“Nay, cou'd you think it, I am told,
“He stole five guineas, all in gold.
“You know the youth was always wild—
“He got his father's maid with child;
“And robb'd his master, to defray
“The money he had lost at play.
“All means to save him now must fail.
“What can it end in?—In a jail.”
Howe'er the dame doats o'er her youth,
My gossip says the very truth.
My gossip says the very truth.
102
But as his vices love wou'd hide,
Or torture them to virtue's side,
So friendship's glass deceives the eye,
(A glass too apt to magnify)
And makes you think at least you see
Some spark of genius, ev'n in me:
You say I shou'd get fame. I doubt it:
Perhaps I am as well without it.
For what's the worth of empty praise?
What poet ever din'd on bays?
For though the Laurel, rarest wonder!
May screen us from the stroke of thunder,
This mind I ever was, and am in,
It is no antidote to famine.
And poets live on slender fare,
Who, like Cameleons, feed on air,
And starve, to gain an empty breath,
Which only serves them after death.
Or torture them to virtue's side,
So friendship's glass deceives the eye,
(A glass too apt to magnify)
And makes you think at least you see
Some spark of genius, ev'n in me:
You say I shou'd get fame. I doubt it:
Perhaps I am as well without it.
For what's the worth of empty praise?
What poet ever din'd on bays?
For though the Laurel, rarest wonder!
May screen us from the stroke of thunder,
This mind I ever was, and am in,
It is no antidote to famine.
And poets live on slender fare,
Who, like Cameleons, feed on air,
And starve, to gain an empty breath,
Which only serves them after death.
Grant I succeed, like Horace rise,
And strike my head against the skies;
Common experience daily shews,
That poets have a world of foes;
And we shall find in every town
Gossips enough to cry them down;
Who meet in pious conversation
T' anatomize a reputation,
With flippant tongue, and empty head,
Who talk of things they never read.
And strike my head against the skies;
Common experience daily shews,
That poets have a world of foes;
And we shall find in every town
Gossips enough to cry them down;
103
T' anatomize a reputation,
With flippant tongue, and empty head,
Who talk of things they never read.
Their idle censures I despise:
Their niggard praises won't suffice.
Tempt me no more then to the crime
Of dabbling in the font of rhime.
My Muse has answer'd all her end,
If her productions please a friend.
The world is burthen'd with a store,
Why need I add one scribbler more?
Their niggard praises won't suffice.
Tempt me no more then to the crime
Of dabbling in the font of rhime.
My Muse has answer'd all her end,
If her productions please a friend.
The world is burthen'd with a store,
Why need I add one scribbler more?
| The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd | |