 | The Poetry of George Wither |  |
173
A Postscript
If any carp for that my younger times
Brought forth such idle fruit as these slight rhymes,
It is no matter, so they do not swear
That they so ill-employed never were.
Whilst their desires perhaps they looselier spent,
I gave my heats of youth this better vent,
And oft by writing thus the blood have tamed,
Which some with reading wanton lays enflamed.
Brought forth such idle fruit as these slight rhymes,
It is no matter, so they do not swear
That they so ill-employed never were.
Whilst their desires perhaps they looselier spent,
I gave my heats of youth this better vent,
And oft by writing thus the blood have tamed,
Which some with reading wanton lays enflamed.
Nor care I, though their censure some have pass'd
Because my songs exceed the fiddler's last.
For do they think that I will make my measures
The longer or the shorter for their pleasures?
Or maim or curtolize my free invention
Because fools weary are of their attention?
No; let them know, who do their length contemn,
I make to please myself, and not for them.
Because my songs exceed the fiddler's last.
For do they think that I will make my measures
The longer or the shorter for their pleasures?
Or maim or curtolize my free invention
Because fools weary are of their attention?
No; let them know, who do their length contemn,
I make to please myself, and not for them.
| The Poetry of George Wither | |