The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
 | 1. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
|
|
To Julian Secretary to the Muses.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| 2. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
To Julian Secretary to the Muses.
A Consolatory Epistle in his Confinement.
When those, my Friend, we Love are in distress,
Kind Verse may Comfort, tho' it can't redress:
Nor can I think but you'll my Zeal commend,
Since Poetry has been so much thy Friend:
On that y'ave liv'd and flourish'd all your Time;
Nay more, maintain'd a Family with Rhime.
And that's a Mark which Dr---den ne'er cou'd hit,
So much his Pension's better than his Wit.
Ev'n Gentle George (with Flux in Tongue and Purse)
In shunning one Snare run into a worse.
Want once may be reliev'd in a Man's Life,
But who can be reliev'd that has a Wife?
Ot---y can scarce his Corps from Gaol preserve,
For tho' he's very fat he's like to starve.
And sing-song Dr---fy plac'd beneath Abuses,
Lives by his Impudence and not the Muses.
Poor Cr****n, too, has his Third Days mixt with Gall,
He lives so ill he hardly lives at all!
Shad---l and St---le, who pretend to Reason,
Tho' paid so well for scribb'ling Doggrel Treason,
Must now expect a very barren Season;
But chiefly He that made his Recantation;
For Villains thrive best in their own Vocation.
Nay Lee in Bedlam now sees better Days
Than in his madder Time of writing Plays:
He knows no Care, nor feels sharp Want no more,
A Blessing he cou'd never boast before.
Thus while our Bards e'en famish by their Wit,
Thou, who hast none at all, dost thrive by it.
Kind Verse may Comfort, tho' it can't redress:
Nor can I think but you'll my Zeal commend,
Since Poetry has been so much thy Friend:
On that y'ave liv'd and flourish'd all your Time;
Nay more, maintain'd a Family with Rhime.
And that's a Mark which Dr---den ne'er cou'd hit,
So much his Pension's better than his Wit.
Ev'n Gentle George (with Flux in Tongue and Purse)
In shunning one Snare run into a worse.
Want once may be reliev'd in a Man's Life,
But who can be reliev'd that has a Wife?
Ot---y can scarce his Corps from Gaol preserve,
For tho' he's very fat he's like to starve.
And sing-song Dr---fy plac'd beneath Abuses,
Lives by his Impudence and not the Muses.
Poor Cr****n, too, has his Third Days mixt with Gall,
He lives so ill he hardly lives at all!
76
Tho' paid so well for scribb'ling Doggrel Treason,
Must now expect a very barren Season;
But chiefly He that made his Recantation;
For Villains thrive best in their own Vocation.
Nay Lee in Bedlam now sees better Days
Than in his madder Time of writing Plays:
He knows no Care, nor feels sharp Want no more,
A Blessing he cou'd never boast before.
Thus while our Bards e'en famish by their Wit,
Thou, who hast none at all, dost thrive by it.
Wer't possible that Wit cou'd turn a Penny,
Poets wou'd then grow rich as well as any.
First, 'tis not Wit to have a great Estate,
(The blind Effects of Fortune and of Fate;)
For oft we see a Coxcomb, vile and vain,
Brim full of Cash, yet empty in the Brain.
Nor is it Wit that makes the Lawyer prize
A bawling Life, but Knav'ry in Disguise,
To pluck down honest Men that he may rise.
Nor is it Wit that does our Quacks advance,
(Those of your English Spawn, or those from France)
But pois'ning by Design—for Curing comes by Chance.
Nor is it Wit that makes the Tradesman Great,
'Tis the Compendious Art to Lye and Cheat.
Nor is it Wit for Burgess, Lobb and Pen,
(Those worst of Teachers to the worst of Men)
To think by getting Rich, to grow Divine;
For where's the Saint if you with-hold the Coin?
Nor is it Wit to be in Scarlet drest;
To Wisdom, Grief; to Policy, a Jest.
Life in our King's, or Country's just Defence
We all shou'd stake; but does it rise from thence
That Colour's Courage, or that Oaths are Sense?
Or that th'Impartial Satyr shou'd not grin
To see such Herds behind the Lion's Skin?
Nor is it Wit that drills the Statesman on
To wast the Sweets of Life, so quickly gone,
In toiling for Estates; then like a Sot,
Leave Luxury to devour what Knavery got.
Nor is it Wit for Whigs to scribble Satyrs,
No more than for their Patriots to be Traytors;
For Wit does never bring a Man to hanging;
That goes no further than a Rose-street Banging:
How justly then dost thou our Praise deserve,
That got thy Bread where all Men else wou'd starve?
And, what's more strange, the Miracle was wrought
By him that han't the least Pretence to Thought:
And he that had no Meaning to do wrong,
Can't suffer, sure, for his No-meaning long:
And that's the Consolation now I bring;
Thou art too dull to think a treach'rous Thing,
And 'tis the thoughtful Traytor that offends his KING.
Poets wou'd then grow rich as well as any.
First, 'tis not Wit to have a great Estate,
(The blind Effects of Fortune and of Fate;)
For oft we see a Coxcomb, vile and vain,
Brim full of Cash, yet empty in the Brain.
Nor is it Wit that makes the Lawyer prize
A bawling Life, but Knav'ry in Disguise,
To pluck down honest Men that he may rise.
Nor is it Wit that does our Quacks advance,
(Those of your English Spawn, or those from France)
But pois'ning by Design—for Curing comes by Chance.
Nor is it Wit that makes the Tradesman Great,
'Tis the Compendious Art to Lye and Cheat.
Nor is it Wit for Burgess, Lobb and Pen,
(Those worst of Teachers to the worst of Men)
To think by getting Rich, to grow Divine;
For where's the Saint if you with-hold the Coin?
Nor is it Wit to be in Scarlet drest;
To Wisdom, Grief; to Policy, a Jest.
Life in our King's, or Country's just Defence
We all shou'd stake; but does it rise from thence
That Colour's Courage, or that Oaths are Sense?
77
To see such Herds behind the Lion's Skin?
Nor is it Wit that drills the Statesman on
To wast the Sweets of Life, so quickly gone,
In toiling for Estates; then like a Sot,
Leave Luxury to devour what Knavery got.
Nor is it Wit for Whigs to scribble Satyrs,
No more than for their Patriots to be Traytors;
For Wit does never bring a Man to hanging;
That goes no further than a Rose-street Banging:
How justly then dost thou our Praise deserve,
That got thy Bread where all Men else wou'd starve?
And, what's more strange, the Miracle was wrought
By him that han't the least Pretence to Thought:
And he that had no Meaning to do wrong,
Can't suffer, sure, for his No-meaning long:
And that's the Consolation now I bring;
Thou art too dull to think a treach'rous Thing,
And 'tis the thoughtful Traytor that offends his KING.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |