The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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To Philip Ayres Esq; On his Poems and Translations, &c.
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
65
To Philip Ayres Esq; On his Poems and Translations, &c.
The sacred Wreath of Bays is worn by few,
Scarce in a hundred Years by One, or Two,
Yet from that Hope we must not banish You;
You who so well, and with so just a Wing,
Of Love and the bright Charms of Beauty sing.
Thy Version does th'Originals refine,
Oft rough in those, but always smooth in thine.
To thee the Languages so well are known,
We may with Justice call 'em all thy Own:
At Madrid, Paris, Portugal, or Rome,
Thou art as true a Native as at Home.
Had you at Babel been, and but allow
Y'ad understood the Tongues as well as now,
In that Confusion (sole Interpreter)
Y'ad stop't the monst'rous Din, and Chatt'ring War;
The Noble Work a new y'ad made 'em ply,
And rais'd th'Immortal Structure to the Sky!
Scarce in a hundred Years by One, or Two,
Yet from that Hope we must not banish You;
You who so well, and with so just a Wing,
Of Love and the bright Charms of Beauty sing.
Thy Version does th'Originals refine,
Oft rough in those, but always smooth in thine.
To thee the Languages so well are known,
We may with Justice call 'em all thy Own:
At Madrid, Paris, Portugal, or Rome,
Thou art as true a Native as at Home.
Had you at Babel been, and but allow
Y'ad understood the Tongues as well as now,
In that Confusion (sole Interpreter)
Y'ad stop't the monst'rous Din, and Chatt'ring War;
The Noble Work a new y'ad made 'em ply,
And rais'd th'Immortal Structure to the Sky!
Ah Friend! It grieves me that at such a Time,
When all that's learn'd and just is thought a Crime,
You shou'd be Doom'd to the hard Fate of Rhime:
So strangely Partial are our Authors grown,
That nothing scapes their Spite but what's their own.
This Work of thine that well deserves to live,
And have what Praise judicious Men can give,
Must not, tho' nicely Written, hope to be
From their invet'rate, lawless Censure free.
On thy own Modesty they'll cry y'are split;
Judging of thee by what themselves have writ,
And thinking Vertue ne'er produces Wit.
But rest secure, and scorn their feeble Rage;
Such Writers are but Mete'ors of their Age,
That fall, and soon Extinguish on the Stage:
Only remember'd while the Stench remains,
Their Fame of no more durance than their Gains.
In spite of Vice thou shalt be Vertue's boast,
When Shoals of such are in Oblivion lost.
When all that's learn'd and just is thought a Crime,
You shou'd be Doom'd to the hard Fate of Rhime:
So strangely Partial are our Authors grown,
That nothing scapes their Spite but what's their own.
This Work of thine that well deserves to live,
And have what Praise judicious Men can give,
Must not, tho' nicely Written, hope to be
From their invet'rate, lawless Censure free.
On thy own Modesty they'll cry y'are split;
Judging of thee by what themselves have writ,
And thinking Vertue ne'er produces Wit.
66
Such Writers are but Mete'ors of their Age,
That fall, and soon Extinguish on the Stage:
Only remember'd while the Stench remains,
Their Fame of no more durance than their Gains.
In spite of Vice thou shalt be Vertue's boast,
When Shoals of such are in Oblivion lost.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |