ODE XVII.
[When I would bring]
1
When I would bring
One verse, to Sing
Thy Name, how Dull am I!
Should I reherse
Some toy in verse,
My giddie Fancie then would flye;
Wretch that I am! How glad
I am of this poore trade,
This Sillye Rime!
Yet when I would endeavour
To Celebrate the giver,
In a well-weigh'd
Iudicious Poesie, how lesse Sublime
My numbers move then ever.
2
When I my Clod
Would kicke, oh God,
How am I fetteréd;
At either heele,
Me think's I feele
A plummet, heavier far then Lead;
Or like the Falcon, knit
Vnto the Perch, I flitt,
And make a bayte;
I picke my Iesses; and assay
For Libertie, in everie way;
But cannot hitt.
I toyle and flutter; faine would breake the grate,
Where I am mewed, of Clay.
3
I may, Sometime,
In halfe a Rime,
Hop from the Turfe; but when
I would attempt
A raveshment,
T' enrich my drye and drousie pen;
Check'd by my bonds, I fall,
And lime my Selfe, in all
The muite and Slime.
The more I would Aspire,
The more (Alas) I tire;
Enforc'd to call
My Clog, to be my Stay; and pant a Time
Vpon my Bed of mire.
4
Poore helples Man,
What number Can
Expresse thy weaknesse? Had
All Qvills bene bent,
To this intent,
How were it more then yet a Shade?
There is a Dismall Screene
Of Earth and Sin betweene
Vs and the bright
Obiects wee would discerne.
How farre are wee to learne
The yet vnknowne
Beauties of Truth? and onlie hope a Light
For which our Bowells yerne.
5
Leave me awhile,
Officious Qvill;
For I have a great Thought
Vnforméd yet;
Nor can I fitt
It to the better Formes I ought.
Let me awhile retire,
Till warmed with Sacred Fire,
My Active nerves
Secure a stronger flight,
To gather (from that Light
Which I admire)
Some ray; (alas) till then the Sinner Sterves,
In a Sad winter's night.
