 | Poems (1931) |  |
No. 56. To the Duke of Devonshire
The Petition of John Ward
In Terms most humble presents to your Grace
His very small Fortune and very hard case;
That oft disappointed on none he depends
But is left to the world without Merit, or Friends.
Unacquainted with Parties unknown to the Great,
Unaccustomed to Toil yet the Pastime of Fate,
Forsaken of all, all Methods he tries,
If ought may avail, to make himself rise
Yet ventures with Modesty so near your Throne
In Talk a meer Stranger, by Sight scarcely known
Whose only Estate is exalted so high,
Dull Mortals despise it, as plac'd in the Sky,
For Wits, let their Fame be as great as they will
Are the Offspring of Sloth and Poverty still,
Ennur'd to no Trade, and brought up to no Art,
Not help'd by Relations, nor crown'd with Desert,
To Mankind in vain I might sue for Redress,
None know my Occasions, and few Men will guess.
In State most desponding, by the Light of a Taper,
With Thoughts dull and dark as my Wax, or my Paper,
Yet still most submissive, I come to your Grace,
In Accents most modest to beg some small Place.
Some pretty neat Portion in th' Army, or State,
For Life not too small, nor for Virtue too great.
That blest with such easy and competent Wealth,
I might drink once a Day your Lordship's good health,
And put in so even, sufficient a way,
I should scorn to flatter for Love, or for Pay.
Oh! might I once get a Subsistence so fair,
I'd write no more Rhimes, nor build Tow'rs in the Air,
The Faults of my Youth, and my Life I'd reclaim,
Nor, knowing more Guilt, wou'd be curst with more Shame,
I'd sit down in quiet, in no false Man trust,
In all my Thoughts, calm, in all Actions, just,
The Slanders of Hate and of Pride I'd defy,
No Mortal, my Lord, wou'd be more blest than I
Ev'n pleas'd with the Hope, I already prepare
To dispel my sad Gloom, & to banish my Care,—
Oh! might I behold that most fortunate Day,
Your Grace's most thankful, for ever shou'd pray.
His very small Fortune and very hard case;
That oft disappointed on none he depends
But is left to the world without Merit, or Friends.
Unacquainted with Parties unknown to the Great,
Unaccustomed to Toil yet the Pastime of Fate,
Forsaken of all, all Methods he tries,
If ought may avail, to make himself rise
Yet ventures with Modesty so near your Throne
In Talk a meer Stranger, by Sight scarcely known
Whose only Estate is exalted so high,
Dull Mortals despise it, as plac'd in the Sky,
For Wits, let their Fame be as great as they will
Are the Offspring of Sloth and Poverty still,
Ennur'd to no Trade, and brought up to no Art,
Not help'd by Relations, nor crown'd with Desert,
To Mankind in vain I might sue for Redress,
None know my Occasions, and few Men will guess.
In State most desponding, by the Light of a Taper,
With Thoughts dull and dark as my Wax, or my Paper,
Yet still most submissive, I come to your Grace,
In Accents most modest to beg some small Place.
Some pretty neat Portion in th' Army, or State,
For Life not too small, nor for Virtue too great.
That blest with such easy and competent Wealth,
I might drink once a Day your Lordship's good health,
And put in so even, sufficient a way,
I should scorn to flatter for Love, or for Pay.
Oh! might I once get a Subsistence so fair,
I'd write no more Rhimes, nor build Tow'rs in the Air,
The Faults of my Youth, and my Life I'd reclaim,
Nor, knowing more Guilt, wou'd be curst with more Shame,
I'd sit down in quiet, in no false Man trust,
In all my Thoughts, calm, in all Actions, just,
241
No Mortal, my Lord, wou'd be more blest than I
Ev'n pleas'd with the Hope, I already prepare
To dispel my sad Gloom, & to banish my Care,—
Oh! might I behold that most fortunate Day,
Your Grace's most thankful, for ever shou'd pray.
John Ward.
[Tickell papers.]
| Poems (1931) | |