 | Every Man in his Own Way |  |
And yet, believe me, I have often try'd
To take your fav'rite Maxim for my Guide.
Nil admirari dwells upon your Tongue:
So Horace sings, and I approve his Song.
But like Medea, frantic in her Love,
I cannot practise what I thus approve.
Too fond of Verse, I waste my precious Time
In Sounds, and Similies, and worthless Rhyme;
Mad as the Priest, who, in poetic Rage,
With Floods of Nonsense deluges the Stage:
What tho' you damn one Offspring of his Brain?
Prolific Dullness quickly spawns again:
This Monster crush'd, another strait appears,
Head after Head the sprouting Hydra rears;
Despising all the Censures of the Town,
And ev'ry Person's Judgment, but his own;
For tho' pronounc'd a Fool by all the Pit,
He impudently thinks himself a Wit.
To take your fav'rite Maxim for my Guide.
Nil admirari dwells upon your Tongue:
So Horace sings, and I approve his Song.
But like Medea, frantic in her Love,
I cannot practise what I thus approve.
Too fond of Verse, I waste my precious Time
In Sounds, and Similies, and worthless Rhyme;
Mad as the Priest, who, in poetic Rage,
With Floods of Nonsense deluges the Stage:
What tho' you damn one Offspring of his Brain?
Prolific Dullness quickly spawns again:
This Monster crush'd, another strait appears,
Head after Head the sprouting Hydra rears;
Despising all the Censures of the Town,
And ev'ry Person's Judgment, but his own;
3
He impudently thinks himself a Wit.
| Every Man in his Own Way | |