Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

No more, my Muse, since Satire don't prevail,
Let's change our Stile for once, and cease to rail;
'Tis an ill Trade, and we have often found,
Instead of giving, we receive the wound.
Many a poor Poet, by his Rage inflam'd,
Has mist his aim, and seen his Writings damn'd,

And where, perhaps, he thought he rally'd best,
Some surly Rogue has drub'd him for the jest.
A tedious Panegerick coldly wrote,
Is bundl'd up, and may at leisure rot:
It fears no Censures; differing or unjust,
And has no Enemies but moth and dust.
But such malitious Authors are not safe,
Who laugh themselves, and make their Readers Laugh;
Whom when we Read, we blame, yet still read on,
Who think that all is Lawful they have done,
And can't, alas! their merry Fits forego,
Tho' every grin engages them a foe.
A Poem soon offends, if too severe,
For each will think he sees his Image there;
And he who reads it, may applaud your Art,
Yet Curses, Fears, and Hates you form his Heart.

Forget it then, my Muse, and change thy strain,
The Itch of Satire makes thee write in vain;
Go learn to Praise, and search among the Throng
Of Hero's, one deserving of thy Song;
But oh! For what would I thy Spirits raise,
I scarce can blunder out a Rhime for praise;
As soon as I indeavour thus to rise,
My fancy flags, and all my fury dies,
I scratch my Head, I bit my Nails in vain,
For all this mighty Labour of my Brain,
Brings nothing less unnatural abroad,
Than Blackmore's Poem, or than C---'s Ode,
I think I'm rack'd when Praises must be wrote,
My Pen resists me, and my Paper blots;
But when I am to rail my thoughts are fir'd,
Then, only then, I know I am Inspir'd.
As soon as I invoke, Apollo hears,
The God is ready still to grant my Pray'rs:

I think with pleasure, and I write with ease,
My Words, my Numbers, and the Subject please.
Were I to Paint the Raskal of the Town,
My Hand, before I think, writes T---r down.
Were I to mark you out a perfect Sot,
My Pen points presently to M---ot.
I find my Genius with my Wit agrees,
To mawl a trifling Rhimer as I please,
My Verse comes breaking like a Tempest down,
At once you meet with B---y, Banks and Crown;
With Y---n, G---n, P---, Durfey, Brown,
And for one scribling Blockhead I have nam'd,
I find a Thousand more stand ready to be damn'd.
In Triumph then my Fury hastens on,
And I in private joy at what is done;
In vain amidst its course I would engage,
To stop the Impetuous Torrent of my Rage;

In vain, I would at least some persons spare,
My Pen strikes all, and will not one forbear.
When the mad Fit has master'd me, you know
What follows—Fly,—if you would miss the Blow.
Merit, however, I will always prize,
But Fools provoke me, and offend my Eyes:
I follow 'em as a Dog pursues his Prey,
And bark when e're I smell 'em in my way:
I know, to say no more, if Wit is scarce,
To gingle out a Rhime, or tag a Verse:
Or Cobble wretched Prose to numerous Lines:
There, if I have a Genius, there it shines.
Thus tho ev'n Death, with all the Fears he brings,
Were hov'ring o're to seize me in his ghastly Wings;

Tho Heaven secur'd me in a lasting Peace,
With all the City Pomp, or Countrey Ease:
Tho the whole world should think themselves abus'd,
At what my Pen had in its rage produc'd;
Yet merry, melancholly, rich or Poor,
I should not cease to Rhime, but write the more,
Poor Muse, I pity thee, some Fop will say,
Cease your Resentments, and your Heats allay,
The fool you publish in an angry mood,
May quench this thirst of Satire in your Blood:
But why? When Horace and Lucilius shew
What wit in Vertues Quarrel ought to do.
The Vapours of their Choller thus exhal'd,
Their Satire faught for Vertue, and prevail'd
With all the Transports of a Noble Rage,
They baffl'd and unmask'd the Vices of the Age.

Why! When the furious Pen of Juvenal
Ran o're with Floods of Bitterness and Gall,
Insulting freely o're the Roman Crimes,
And lashing all the Follies of the Times,
Yet safely to the Last the Wits did rave,
Not one of them was cudgell'd to his grave,
Why then should I a Coxcomb's anger fear?
Where do's my manner or my name appear?
I don't, like W---, Impudently great,
With Rhimes and Satires every fool I meet,
Or tumble o're my Verses in the Street.
Sometimes indeed, yet what I always dread,
Where Satire pleases, I am forc'd to read,
Where, if they praise the work I often see,
They Laugh a loud at that, and Low at me;
Perhaps I'm pleas'd with what they disapprove,
And will, in short, still follow what I Love;

For when a pleasant Thought is once my own,
I am not easie till I write it down;
When with a sacred Fury I am seiz'd,
I can't resist whoever is displeas'd.
Enough—No more of this—let's breath a while,
My Hand at last grows weary of the Toil,
'Tis time, my Muse, to end so harsh a strain,
Enough—to morrow we'll begin again.