 | Alexander Pope: Minor poems |  |
170
SANDYS's GHOST:
Or A Proper New BALLAD on the New OVID's METAMORPHOSIS:
As it was intended to be Translated by Persons of Quality.
Ye Lords and Commons, Men of Wit
And Pleasure about Town;
Read this, e'er you translate one Bit
Of Books of high Renown.
And Pleasure about Town;
Read this, e'er you translate one Bit
Of Books of high Renown.
171
Beware of Latin Authors all!
Nor think your Verses Sterling,
Tho' with a Golden Pen you scrawl,
And scribble in a Berlin:
Nor think your Verses Sterling,
Tho' with a Golden Pen you scrawl,
And scribble in a Berlin:
For not the Desk with silver Nails,
Nor Bureau of Expence,
Nor Standish well japan'd, avails
To writing of good Sense.
Nor Bureau of Expence,
Nor Standish well japan'd, avails
To writing of good Sense.
Hear how a Ghost in dead of Night,
With saucer Eyes of Fire,
In woful wise did sore affright
A Wit and courtly 'Squire.
With saucer Eyes of Fire,
In woful wise did sore affright
A Wit and courtly 'Squire.
Rare Imp of Phœbus, hopeful Youth!
Like Puppy tame that uses
To fetch and carry, in his Mouth,
The Works of all the Muses.
Like Puppy tame that uses
To fetch and carry, in his Mouth,
The Works of all the Muses.
Ah! why did he write Poetry,
That hereto was so civil;
And sell his Soul for Vanity,
To Rhyming and the Devil?
That hereto was so civil;
And sell his Soul for Vanity,
To Rhyming and the Devil?
A Desk he had of curious Work,
With glitt'ring Studs about;
Within the same did Sandys lurk,
Tho' Ovid lay without.
With glitt'ring Studs about;
Within the same did Sandys lurk,
Tho' Ovid lay without.
172
Now as he scratch'd to fetch up Thought,
Forth popp'd the Sprite so thin;
And from the Key-Hole bolted out,
All upright as a Pin,
Forth popp'd the Sprite so thin;
And from the Key-Hole bolted out,
All upright as a Pin,
With Whiskers, Band, and Pantaloon,
And Ruff compos'd most duly;
This 'Squire he dropp'd his Pen full soon,
While as the Light burnt bluely.
And Ruff compos'd most duly;
This 'Squire he dropp'd his Pen full soon,
While as the Light burnt bluely.
Ho! Master Sam, quoth Sandys' Sprite,
Write on, nor let me scare ye;
Forsooth, if Rhymes fall in not right,
To Budgel seek, or Carey.
Write on, nor let me scare ye;
Forsooth, if Rhymes fall in not right,
To Budgel seek, or Carey.
I hear the Beat of Jacob's Drums,
Poor Ovid finds no Quarter!
See first the merry P--- comes
In haste, without his Garter.
Poor Ovid finds no Quarter!
See first the merry P--- comes
In haste, without his Garter.
Then Lords and Lordings, 'Squires and Knights,
Wits, Witlings, Prigs, and Peers;
Garth at St James's, and at White's,
Beats up for Volunteers.
Wits, Witlings, Prigs, and Peers;
Garth at St James's, and at White's,
Beats up for Volunteers.
173
What Fenton will not do, nor Gay,
Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,
Tom B---n*t or Tom D'Urfy may,
John Dunton, Steel, or any one.
Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,
Tom B---n*t or Tom D'Urfy may,
John Dunton, Steel, or any one.
If Justice Philip's costive Head
Some frigid Rhymes disburses;
They shall like Persian Tales be read,
And glad both Babes and Nurses.
Some frigid Rhymes disburses;
They shall like Persian Tales be read,
And glad both Babes and Nurses.
Let W*rw*k's Muse with Ash---t join,
And Ozel's with Lord Hervey's:
Tickell and Addison combine,
And P*pe translate with Jervis.
And Ozel's with Lord Hervey's:
Tickell and Addison combine,
And P*pe translate with Jervis.
L--- himself, that lively Lord
Who bows to ev'ry Lady,
Shall join with F--- in one Accord,
And be like Tate and Brady.
Who bows to ev'ry Lady,
Shall join with F--- in one Accord,
And be like Tate and Brady.
Ye Ladies too draw forth your Pen,
I pray where can the Hurt lie?
Since you have Brains as well as Men,
As witness Lady W---l*y.
I pray where can the Hurt lie?
Since you have Brains as well as Men,
As witness Lady W---l*y.
174
Now, Tonson, list thy Forces all,
Review them, and tell Noses;
For to poor Ovid shall befal
A strange Metamorphosis.
Review them, and tell Noses;
For to poor Ovid shall befal
A strange Metamorphosis.
A Metamorphosis more strange
Than all his Books can vapour;
“To what, (quoth 'Squire) shall Ovid change?”
Quoth Sandys: To Waste-Paper.
Than all his Books can vapour;
“To what, (quoth 'Squire) shall Ovid change?”
Quoth Sandys: To Waste-Paper.
| Alexander Pope: Minor poems | |