The poems of George Daniel ... From the original mss. in the British Museum: Hitherto unprinted. Edited, with introduction, notes, and illustrations, portrait, &c. By the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart: In four volumes |
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 | The poems of George Daniel |  |
The many Scurrile Pamphlets (going vnder the name of Poems,) frequently printed; occasion'd this.
Shall I be Silent? cause I am not heard
In the full Croud? noe; let the Pile I rear'd,
Tumble vpon my head, ere stand to be
An obiect of their Praise or fflatterie.
I must Confes, a Novice in the world,
I Courted her Applause, & my verse hurl'd
Into her Lappe; and my Ambition
Was, not to be a Poet, but soe knowne;
And have my Name made ffamous: this, I sought,
And gain'd. But ah, I wish all this were nought:
I now retract my follyes, and Contemne
The vulgar in their Noise. I would not seeme
To be at all from them; nor did I seeke
Opinion meerely, when I was most weake;
But to the Modest flights of a yonge Muse
Encouragement; not Praise, but an Excuse.
And this I did, not to the vulgar Crue,
But to the Serious head and Sober Brow.
Drawne out by whom, I ventur'd on the Stage
Of Censure, with my Poems to the Age;
And found Enough of Candor, to the Ayme
Of what I hoped. Thus entred into ffame,
I trode a larger Step, and ventur'd on
A higher Pitch, where noe opinion
Was lost to my Endeavours; therefore, may
This vindicate my Spleene. I doe not say
I hate the world, or I contemne her praise,
Because I wanted any: many waies
I had beyond my Merit, and Suspect
My owne, for her applause; to see how deckt
In her Encomions ffollie doth appeare,
And Ignorance, it Selfe, is famous here.
This when I see, I must Confesse I rise
With Indignation, and her vote despise;
Torture my Selfe, a Poet, in the Name:
And count my ornament my greife, my Shame.
To looke vpon the Age, and see what things
Come vailed, vnder the adulterate wings
Of Poesie. Oh; I could splitt my Qvill,
Forget my Manhood, if it were not Ill;
To see that pure fflame fall, a prostitute;
And Coiture of Ruffians, cause her ffruite;
When to the Twang of meeter, Poesie
Shall fall to Sordid Groomes; and Infamie
Attends the Name; oh, let vs teare, the bright
Lawrel of Phebus, in a iust-raisd Spight.
In the full Croud? noe; let the Pile I rear'd,
Tumble vpon my head, ere stand to be
An obiect of their Praise or fflatterie.
I must Confes, a Novice in the world,
I Courted her Applause, & my verse hurl'd
Into her Lappe; and my Ambition
Was, not to be a Poet, but soe knowne;
88
And gain'd. But ah, I wish all this were nought:
I now retract my follyes, and Contemne
The vulgar in their Noise. I would not seeme
To be at all from them; nor did I seeke
Opinion meerely, when I was most weake;
But to the Modest flights of a yonge Muse
Encouragement; not Praise, but an Excuse.
And this I did, not to the vulgar Crue,
But to the Serious head and Sober Brow.
Drawne out by whom, I ventur'd on the Stage
Of Censure, with my Poems to the Age;
And found Enough of Candor, to the Ayme
Of what I hoped. Thus entred into ffame,
I trode a larger Step, and ventur'd on
A higher Pitch, where noe opinion
Was lost to my Endeavours; therefore, may
This vindicate my Spleene. I doe not say
I hate the world, or I contemne her praise,
Because I wanted any: many waies
I had beyond my Merit, and Suspect
My owne, for her applause; to see how deckt
In her Encomions ffollie doth appeare,
And Ignorance, it Selfe, is famous here.
This when I see, I must Confesse I rise
With Indignation, and her vote despise;
Torture my Selfe, a Poet, in the Name:
And count my ornament my greife, my Shame.
89
Come vailed, vnder the adulterate wings
Of Poesie. Oh; I could splitt my Qvill,
Forget my Manhood, if it were not Ill;
To see that pure fflame fall, a prostitute;
And Coiture of Ruffians, cause her ffruite;
When to the Twang of meeter, Poesie
Shall fall to Sordid Groomes; and Infamie
Attends the Name; oh, let vs teare, the bright
Lawrel of Phebus, in a iust-raisd Spight.
Dull Age of Ignorance! and shall I steere
My vessel to thy Compasse? noe; I here
Loudlie profes it to the world, I Claime
The honour of a Poet, and the Name,
With all the Title Modestie can vrge.
I am a Poet; and I bring as large
A Stocke as may suffice to keep witt in
Her native Colours. What I loose or win
To bloat opinion, that below my fate
I ever value: come it soone, or late.
My vessel to thy Compasse? noe; I here
Loudlie profes it to the world, I Claime
The honour of a Poet, and the Name,
With all the Title Modestie can vrge.
I am a Poet; and I bring as large
A Stocke as may suffice to keep witt in
Her native Colours. What I loose or win
To bloat opinion, that below my fate
I ever value: come it soone, or late.
| The poems of George Daniel | |