The works, in verse and prose, of William Shenstone, Esq In two volumes. With Decorations. The fourth edition |
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The POET and the DUN. 1741. |
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| II. |
 | The works, in verse and prose, of William Shenstone, Esq |  |
217
The POET and the DUN. 1741.
These are Messengers
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Shakespear.
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Shakespear.
Comes a dun in the morning and raps at my door—
“I made bold to call—'tis a twelvemonth and more—
I'm sorry, believe me, to trouble you thus, Sir,—
But Job wou'd be paid, Sir, had Job been a mercer.”
My friend have but patience—“Ay these are your ways.”
I have got but one shilling to serve me two days—
But Sir—prithee take it, and tell your attorney.
If I han't paid your bill, I have paid for your journey.
“I made bold to call—'tis a twelvemonth and more—
I'm sorry, believe me, to trouble you thus, Sir,—
But Job wou'd be paid, Sir, had Job been a mercer.”
My friend have but patience—“Ay these are your ways.”
I have got but one shilling to serve me two days—
But Sir—prithee take it, and tell your attorney.
If I han't paid your bill, I have paid for your journey.
Well, now thou art gone, let me govern my passion,
And calmly consider—consider? vexation!
What whore that must paint, and must put on false looks,
And counterfeit joy in the pangs of the pox!
What beggar's wife's nephew, now starv'd, and now beaten,
Who, wanting to eat, fears himself shall be eaten!
What porter, what turnspit, can deem his case hard!
Or what dun boast of patience that thinks of bard!
Well, I'll leave this poor trade, for no trade can be poore,
Turn shoe-boy, or courtier, or pimp, or procurer;
Get love, and respect, and good living, and pelf,
And dun some poor dog of a poet myself.
One's credit, however, of course will grow better;
Here enters the footman, and brings me a letter.
And calmly consider—consider? vexation!
What whore that must paint, and must put on false looks,
And counterfeit joy in the pangs of the pox!
What beggar's wife's nephew, now starv'd, and now beaten,
Who, wanting to eat, fears himself shall be eaten!
What porter, what turnspit, can deem his case hard!
Or what dun boast of patience that thinks of bard!
Well, I'll leave this poor trade, for no trade can be poore,
Turn shoe-boy, or courtier, or pimp, or procurer;
Get love, and respect, and good living, and pelf,
And dun some poor dog of a poet myself.
One's credit, however, of course will grow better;
Here enters the footman, and brings me a letter.
218
“Dear Sir! I receiv'd your obliging epistle,
Your fame is secure—bid the critics go whistle.
I read over with wonder the poem you sent me;
And I must speak your praises, no soul shall prevent me.
The audience, believe me, cry'd out ev'ry line
Was strong, was affecting, was just, was divine;
All pregnant, as gold is, with worth, weight and beauty,
And to hide such a genius was—far from your duty.
I foresee that the court will be hugely delighted:
Sir Richard, for much a less genius, was knighted.
Adieu, my good friend, and for high life prepare ye;
I cou'd say much more, but you're modest, I spare ye.”
Quite fir'd with the flatt'ry, I call for my paper,
And waste that, and health, and my time, and my taper:
I scribble 'till morn, when with wrath no small store,
Comes my old friend the mercer, and raps at my door.
“Ah! friend, 'tis but idle to make such a pother,
Fate, fate has ordain'd us, to plague one another.”
Your fame is secure—bid the critics go whistle.
I read over with wonder the poem you sent me;
And I must speak your praises, no soul shall prevent me.
The audience, believe me, cry'd out ev'ry line
Was strong, was affecting, was just, was divine;
All pregnant, as gold is, with worth, weight and beauty,
And to hide such a genius was—far from your duty.
I foresee that the court will be hugely delighted:
Sir Richard, for much a less genius, was knighted.
Adieu, my good friend, and for high life prepare ye;
I cou'd say much more, but you're modest, I spare ye.”
Quite fir'd with the flatt'ry, I call for my paper,
And waste that, and health, and my time, and my taper:
I scribble 'till morn, when with wrath no small store,
Comes my old friend the mercer, and raps at my door.
“Ah! friend, 'tis but idle to make such a pother,
Fate, fate has ordain'd us, to plague one another.”
| The works, in verse and prose, of William Shenstone, Esq | |