The Poetical Entertainer Or, Tales, Satyrs, Dialogues, And Intrigues, &c. Serious and Comical. All digested into such Verse as most agreeable to the several Subjects. To be publish'd as often as occasion shall offer [by Edward Ward] |
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 | The Poetical Entertainer |  |
A Prayer to Apollo.
O grant, Apollo, that I ne'er may come,
Where dull repeating Blockheads fill the Room;
Whose poor pedantick Talent chiefly lies,
In puzling Fools, and carping at the Wise:
Doom not my Ears to hear a Dolt rehearse
The scraps of some old Tragick Poet's Verse,
Who, like an unfledg'd Hero on the Stage,
Huffs, puffs, and rants as if o'ercome with Rage,
And, by false Cadency and dreadful Sound,
Tortures the Words and does the Sense confound!
Nor suffer me, thou God of Rhime, to meet
That Fool of Fools, a proud conceited Wit,
Who with some Learning stock'd, but ill bestow'd,
Does all Men's Labours but his own explode,
Yet steals from e'ery Author that he reads,
And with their Scraps his hungry Genius feeds,
To please some Party who commend the Tool,
And cry him up, tho' insolent and dull,
Till, like the Whigs fam'd Advocate, he gains
Much popular Applause by others Brains.
So the Quack Doctor in a Country-Town,
Thrives not by Cunning he can call his own,
But the arch Sayings of his agent Clown.
Where dull repeating Blockheads fill the Room;
Whose poor pedantick Talent chiefly lies,
In puzling Fools, and carping at the Wise:
Doom not my Ears to hear a Dolt rehearse
The scraps of some old Tragick Poet's Verse,
Who, like an unfledg'd Hero on the Stage,
Huffs, puffs, and rants as if o'ercome with Rage,
And, by false Cadency and dreadful Sound,
Tortures the Words and does the Sense confound!
Nor suffer me, thou God of Rhime, to meet
That Fool of Fools, a proud conceited Wit,
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Does all Men's Labours but his own explode,
Yet steals from e'ery Author that he reads,
And with their Scraps his hungry Genius feeds,
To please some Party who commend the Tool,
And cry him up, tho' insolent and dull,
Till, like the Whigs fam'd Advocate, he gains
Much popular Applause by others Brains.
So the Quack Doctor in a Country-Town,
Thrives not by Cunning he can call his own,
But the arch Sayings of his agent Clown.
O let me not in Coffee-House be teas'd,
With partial News from foreign Letters squeez'd,
Curtail'd and couch'd to please a factious Race,
Who, like their Tools, are infamous and base,
Both hating Truth as noxious to their Ends,
Encourage Lyes, on which their Cause depends,
And scandalize their Rivals, to oblige their Friends!
With partial News from foreign Letters squeez'd,
Curtail'd and couch'd to please a factious Race,
Who, like their Tools, are infamous and base,
Both hating Truth as noxious to their Ends,
Encourage Lyes, on which their Cause depends,
And scandalize their Rivals, to oblige their Friends!
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Let not my Ears be baited with the Praise
Of S***** D***** who struggles for the Bays,
Yet at large Int'rest, and sometimes a Treat,
When native Dulness reigns, in spight of Wit,
Borrows fresh Succour of each abler Friend,
And wins the Town's Applause by what they lend.
So Madam Baugtail with a Face of Brass,
Rig'd by some Bawd, does for a Beauty pass;
Talks of high Birth, and flutters thro' the Town,
In borrow'd Plumes, each Cully thinks her own;
Wins, by her Dress, a new admiring Crew,
Till she believes herself the Lord knows who;
But stripp'd of Friends, her Beauty quickly dies,
And she who made such Conquests with her Eyes,
Turns common Strum for want of fresh Supplies.
Thus fares our Author, who is seldom bright,
But when his trusty Friends vouchsafe to write,
And when they fail, his Laurels bid good Night.
Of S***** D***** who struggles for the Bays,
Yet at large Int'rest, and sometimes a Treat,
When native Dulness reigns, in spight of Wit,
Borrows fresh Succour of each abler Friend,
And wins the Town's Applause by what they lend.
So Madam Baugtail with a Face of Brass,
Rig'd by some Bawd, does for a Beauty pass;
Talks of high Birth, and flutters thro' the Town,
In borrow'd Plumes, each Cully thinks her own;
Wins, by her Dress, a new admiring Crew,
Till she believes herself the Lord knows who;
But stripp'd of Friends, her Beauty quickly dies,
And she who made such Conquests with her Eyes,
Turns common Strum for want of fresh Supplies.
Thus fares our Author, who is seldom bright,
But when his trusty Friends vouchsafe to write,
And when they fail, his Laurels bid good Night.
| The Poetical Entertainer | |