The works of Allan Ramsay :: :: University of Virginia Library

You write Pindaricks! and be d---nd,
Write Epigrams for Cutlers;
None with thy Nonsense will be sham'd
But Chamber-maids and Butlers.
In t'other World expect dry blows,
No Tears shall wipe thy Stains out:
Horace shall pluck thee by the Nose,
And Pindar beat thy Brains out.
T. Brown to T. D'urfy.

That I thus prostitute my Muse
On Theme so low, may gain Excuse;
When following Motives shall be thought on,
Which has this dogrel Fury brought on.
I'm call'd in Honour to protect
The Fair when tret with Disrespect:
Besides, a Zeal transports my Soul,
Which no Constraint can e'er controul;
In Service of the Government,
To draw my Pen, and Satyr vent,
Against vile Mungrels of Parnassus,
Who through Impunity oppress us.

'Tis to correct this scribbling Crew,
Who, as in former Reigns, so now
Torment the World, and load our Time
With Jargon cloath'd in wretched Rhime,
Disgrace of Numbers! Earth! I hate them!
And as they merit, so I'll treat them.

And first, these ill bred Things I lash,
That hated Authors of the Trash,
In publick spread with little Wit,
Much Malice, rude and bootless Spite,
Against the Sex, who have no Arms
To shield them from insulting Harms,
Except the Light'ning of their Eye,
Which none but such blind Dolts defy.

Ungen'rous War! t'attack the Fair:
But Ladies fear not, ye're the Care
Of every Wit of true Descent,
At once their Song and Ornament:
They'll ne'er neglect the lovely Crowd:
But spite of all the Multitude
Of scribbling Fops, assert your Cause,
And execute Apollo's Laws:
Apollo, who the Bard inspires
With softest Thoughts and divine Fires;
Than whom on all the Earth there's no Man
More complaisant to a fine Woman.
Such Veneration mixt with Love,
Points out a Poet from above:
But Zanny's void of Sense and Merit,
Love, Fire, or Fancy, Wit or Spirit:
Weak, frantick, clownish, and chagreen,
Pretending, prompt by zealous Spleen,
T'affront your Head-dress, or your Bone-fence,
Make Printers Presses groan with Nonsense.
But while Sol's Offspring lives, as soon
Shall they pull down his Sister Moon.

They with low incoherent Stuff,
Dark Sense, or none, Lines lame and rough;
Without a Thought, Air or Address,
All the whole Logerhead confess.
From clouded Notions in the Brain,
They scrible in a cloudy Strain:
Desire of Verse they reckon Wit,
And rhime without one Grain of it.
Then hurry forth in publick Town
Their Scrawls, lest they should be unknown.
Rather than want a Fame, they choose
The Plague of an infamous Muse.
Unthinking, thus the Sots aspire,
And raise their own Reproach the high'r:
By meddling with the Modes and Fashions
Of Women of politest Nations.
Perhaps by this they'd have it told us,
That in their Spirit something bold is,
To challenge those who have the Skill,
By Charms to save, and Frowns to kill.

If not Ambition, then 'tis Spite,
Which makes the puny Insects write.
Like old and mouldy Maids turn'd sour,
When distant Charms have lost their Pow'r,
Fly out in loud Transports of Passion,
When ought that's new comes first in Fashion;
'Till by Degrees it creeps right snodly
On Hips and Head-dress of the g---y.
Thus they to please the sighing Sisters,
Who often beet them in their Misters,
With their malicious Breath set sail,
And write these silly Things they rail.
Pimps! Such as you can ne'er extend
A Flight of Wit, which may amend
Our Morals; that's a Plot too nice
For you to laugh Folks out of Vice.

Sighing, Oh hey! Ye cry, Alace!
This Fardingale's a great Disgrace!
And all indeed, because an Ancle,
Or Foot is seen, might Monarchs mancle;
And makes the Wise, with Face upright,
Look up, and bless Heav'n for their Sight.

In your Opinion nothing matches,
O horrid Sin! the Crime of Patches!
'Tis false, ye Clowns; I'll make't appear,
The glorious Sun does Patches wear:
Yea, run thro' all the Frame of Nature,
You'll find a Patch for ev'ry Creature:
Even you your selves, ye blackned Wretches,
To Heliconians are the Patches.

But grant that Ladies Modes were Ills
To be reform'd; your creeping Skills,
Ye Rhimers, never would succeed,
Who write what the polite ne'er read.
To cure an Error of the Fair,
Demands the nicest prudent Care;
Wit utter'd in a pleasing Strain,
A Point so delicate may gain:
But that's a Task as far above
Your shallow Reach, as I'm from Jove.

No more then let the World be vexed
With Baggage empty and perplexed:
But learn to speak with due Respect
Of Peggie's Breasts and Ivory Neck.
Such purblind Eyes as yours 'tis true,
Shou'd ne'er such divine Beauties view.
If Nellie's Hoop be twice as wide,
As her two pretty Limbs can stride;
What then? Will any Man of Sense
Take Umbrage, or the least Offence,

At what even the most modest may
Expose to Phebus' brightest Ray?
Does not the handsome of our City,
The Pious, Chaste, the Kind and Witty,
Who can afford it, great and small,
Regard well shapen Fardingale?
And will you, Mag-pyes, make a Noise?
You grumble at the Lady's Choice?
Pray leav't to them, and Mothers wise,
Who watch their Conduct, Mein and Guise,
To shape their Weeds as fits their Ease;
And place their Patches as they please.
This shou'd be granted without grudging,
Since we all know they're best at judging,
What from Mankind demands Devotion,
In Gesture, Garb, free Airs, and Motion.
But you! Unworthy of my Pen!
Unworthy to be class'd with Men!
Haste to Caffar, ye clumsy Sots,
And there make Love to Hottentots.

Another Sett with Ballads waste
Our Paper, and debauch our Taste
With endless 'larms on the Street,
Where Crowds of circling Rabble meet.
The Vulgar judge of Poetry,
By what these Hawkers sing and cry:
Yea, some who claim to Wit amiss,
Cannot distinguish That from This.
Hence Poets are accounted now
In Scotland a mean empty Crew;
Whose Heads are craz'd, who spend their Time
In that poor wretched Trade of Rhime.
Yet all the learn'd discerning Part
Of Mankind own the heav'nly Art
Is as much distant from such Trash,
As lay'd Dutch Coin from Sterling Cash.

Others in lofty Nonsense write;
Incomprehensible's their Flight;
Such magick Pow'r is in their Pen,
They can bestow on worthless Men
More Virtue, Merit and Renown,
Than ever they cou'd call their own.
They write with arbitrary Power,
And Pity 'tis they shou'd fall lower;
Or stoop to Truth, or yet to meddle
With common Sense, for Crambo didle.

But none of all the rhiming Herd
Are more encourag'd and rever'd
By heavy Souls to their's ally'd,
Than such who tell who lately dy'd.
No sooner is the Spirit flown,
From its Clay Cage, to Lands unknown,
Than some rash Hackney gets his Name,
And thro' the Town laments the same:
An honest Burgess cannot dy,
But they must weep in Elegy;
Even when the virtuous Soul is soaring
Thro' middle Air, he hears it roaring.

These Ills, and many more Abuses,
Which plague Mankind, and vex the Muses,
On Pain of Poverty shall cease,
And all the Fair shall live in Peace:
And every one shall die contented,
Happy when not by them lamented.
For great Apollo in his Name,
Has ord'red me thus to proclaim:
“Forasmuchas a grov'ling Crew,
“With narrow Mind, and brazen Brow,
“Wou'd fain to Poets Title mount,
“And with vile Maggots rub Affront
“On an old Virtuoso Nation,
“Where our lov'd Nine maintain their Station:

“We order strick, that all refrain
“To write, who Learning want, and Brain;
“Pedants, with Hebrew Roots o'ergrown,
“Learn'd in each Language but their own.
“Each spiritless half starving Sinner,
“Who knows not how to get his Dinner:
“Dealers in small Ware, Clinks, Whim Whams,
“Acrosticks, Puns, and Anagrams;
“And all who their Productions grudge,
“To be canvast by skilful Judge,
“Who can find out indulgent Trip,
“Whilst 'tis in harmless Manuscript.
“But to all them who disobey,
“And jog on still in their own Way;

“Be't kend to all Men that our Will is,
“Since all they write so wretched ill is;
“They must dispatch their shallow Ghosts,
“To Pluto's Jakes, and take their Posts;
“There to attend, 'till Dis shall deign
“To use their Works; the Use is plain.

Now know, ye Scoundrels, if ye stand
To humph and ha at this Command,
The Furies have prepar'd a Halter,
To hang, or drive ye helter skelter,
Through Bogs and Moors, like Rats and Mice,
Pursu'd with Hunger, Rags and Lice,
If e'er ye dare again to croak,
And God of Harmony provoke.
Wherefore pursue some Craft for Bread,
Where Hands may better serve than Head;
Nor ever hope in Verse to shine,
Or share in Homer's Fate or ---.

Oblige them upon Occasion.