ELEGY TO CYNTHIA.
He marvels at the unfair Representations of the World in regard to his Muse, and candidly avows a stronger Penchant for Praise and the tender Passion, than for Satire.
What are my dire offences, what my crimes,
That I can never, never be forgiv'n?
It seems as if all Hell was in my rhimes;
Shut on my nose each avenue to Heaven!
No rude, no savage satirist am I;
Arm'd with a sledge to knock poor Folly down,
A gentle biting blister I apply!
And with a gliding razor shave her crown.
I rush not on the world with scorpion whips—
Beneath their fury none are heard to screech;
Touch'd by my toe alone a culprit skips;
Shoe-leather application to his breech.
Yet, hark! they all are crying, ‘Murther! murther!
A Turk, a Saracen is come among us!
No massacre was ever carried further—
His weapons scalp and flea, and stab and prong us.’
How dreaded, though of courtesy the pink,
Mercy and I walk arm in arm together!
Such are the horrors at a drop of ink!
Such are the clamours at a goose's feather!
Smiles at court follies are a venial thing;
That I have laugh'd at times is very true;
Laugh'd at the lordly minions of a king,
Lord Owl, Lord Vulture, and the Lord knows who.
But, ah! how happier, happier far the hours
Of Love and Cynthia that indulge the dream—
Then, then her song the muse with rapture pours,
When Beauty and the Virtues are the theme.
But, Cynthia, dear variety invites—
In quest of this, the muse at times will stray;
And though thy converse and thy bloom delights,
Perpetual roses must not strew her way.
