A Collection of Original Poems By Samuel Derrick |
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The
Author's Apology for writing, after he had bid Farewel to his Muse. |
 | A Collection of Original Poems |  |
The Author's Apology for writing, after he had bid Farewel to his Muse.
—ad mores natura recurrit,
Damnatos, fixa, & mutari nescia.
Juv. Sat. 13.
Damnatos, fixa, & mutari nescia.
Juv. Sat. 13.
Dear Marcus, didst thou never see
A feeble, worn-ou Debauchee;
Whom pox nor poverty can win
To lay aside his darling sin;
In close sedan, who nightly goes
To Mother W*yb*'s, or the Rose:
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Keeps a snug miss—for half the town;
Till Atropos (who takes us all in)
Stops with her sheers—his caterwauling.
Or hast thou not some Culprit seen,
Who whip'd and branded oft has been;
Tho' still the varlet worse and worse is,
Nor can forsake his evil courses,
Till, many a fatal danger past,
In fatal cord—he swings his last.
Rid by the Muse, so I—who long
Have carrol'd many an idle song,
Tho' late Apollo twitch'd my ear,
And bid me by all means forbear,
Nor sacred verse henceforth profane,
By scribbling thus against the grain;
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(Who teaz'd me so at our last meeting)
I vow'd I ne'er wou'd touch the lyre,
Tho' fifty Chloe's should inspire;
Tho' my dear Baillie should revive,
And all his new-blown virtues live;
Not ev'n his worth, with beauty join'd,
Should ever shake my constant mind:
Himself were Witwou'd to surpass,
And grow still more and more—an ass—
No indignation should take place;
From rhyming and resentment free,
The knave or fool might 'scape for me;
Yet still I rave—and in despight
Of vows, and wit, and Phœbus—write.
| A Collection of Original Poems | |