 | Satires and miscellaneous poetry and prose |  |
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BOILEAU SATYR on RHYME
Great famous Wit, whose rich and easy Vein,Free, and unus'd to Drudgery and Pain,
Has all Apollo's Treasure at command,
And, how good Verse is coin'd, dost understand;
In all Wit's Combats Master of Defence,
Tell me, how dost thou pass on Rhime and Sense?
'Tis said th' apply to thee, and in thy Verse
Do freely range themselves as Volunteers;
And without Pain, or pumping for a Word,
Place themselves fitly of their own Accord.
I, whom a lewd Caprich (for some great Crime
I have committed) has condemn'd to rhime,
With slavish Obstinacy vex my Brain
To reconcile 'em, but, alas! in vain.
Sometimes I set my Wits upon the Rack,
And, when I would say white, the Verse says black.
When I would draw a brave Man to the Life,
It names some Slave, that pimps to his own Wife;
Or base Poltroon, that would have sold his Daughter,
If he had met with any to have bought her.
When I would praise an Author, the untoward
Damn'd Sense, says Virgil, but the Rhime—
In fine, whate'er I strive to bring about,
The contrary (spight of my Heart) comes out.
Sometimes, enrag'd for Time and Pains misspent,
I give it over tir'd, and discontent;
And, damning the dull Fiend a thousand Times,
By whom I was possest, forswear all Rhimes;
But having curst the Muses, they appear,
To be reveng'd for't, e're I am aware.
Spight of myself, I strait take fire agen,
Fall to my Task with Paper, Ink, and Pen,
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From Verse to Verse, expect their Aid again.
But if my Muse, or I were so discreet,
T' endure, for Rhime's Sake, one dull Epithet,
I might, like others, easily command
Words without Study, ready and at Hand,
In praising Chloris, Moons, and Stars, and Skies
Are quickly made to match her Face, and Eyes;—
And Gold, and Rubies, with as little Care,
To fit the Colour of her Lips, and Hair;
And mixing Suns, and Flow'rs, and Pearl, and Stones,
Make 'em serve all Complexions at once,
With these fine Fancies, at hap-hazard writ,
I could make Verses without Art or Wit,
And, shifting forty times the Verb and Noun,
With stol'n Impertinence patch up mine own.
But, in the Choice of Words, my scrup'lous Wit
Is fearful to pass one, that is unfit;
Nor can endure to fill up a void Place,
At a Line's End, with one insipid Phrase;
And, therefore, when I scribble twenty Times,
When I have written four, I blot two Rhimes.
May he be damn'd, who first found out that Curse,
T' imprison, and confine his Thoughts in Verse;
To hang so dull a Clog upon his Wit,
And make his Reason to his Rhime submit.
Without this Plague, I freely might have spent
My happy Days with Leisure and Content;
Had nothing in the World to do, or think,
Like a fat Priest, but whore, and eat, and drink;
Had past my Time as pleasantly away,
Slept all the Night, and loiter'd all the Day.
My Soul, that's free from Care, and Fear, and Hope,
Knows how to make her own Ambition stoop,
T' avoid uneasy Greatness, and Resort,
Or for Preferment following the Court.
How happy had I been, if, for a Curse,
The Fates had never sentenc'd me to Verse?
But, ever since this peremptory Vein
With restless Frenzy first posses'd my Brain,
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Of my own Happiness, to judge, and write,
Shut up against my Will, I waste my Age
In mending this, and blotting out that Page;
And grow so weary of the slavish Trade,
I envy their Condition, that write bad.
O happy Scudery! whose easy Quill
Can, once a Month, a mighty Volume fill.
For, though thy works are written in despite
Of all good Sense, impertinent, and slight,
They never have been known to stand in need
Of Stationer to sell, or Sot to read.
For, so the Rhime be at the Verse's End,
No matter whither all the rest do's tend.
Unhappy is that Man, who, spite of 's Heart,
Is forc'd to be ty'd up to Rules of Art.
A Fop that scribbles, does it with Delight,
Takes no Pains to consider, what to write;
But, fond of all the Nonsense he brings forth,
Is ravish'd with his own great Wit and Worth.
While brave and noble Writers vainly strive
To such a Height of Glory to arrive:
But still, with all they do unsatisfy'd,
Ne'er please themselves, though all the World beside.
And those, whom all Mankind admire for Wit,
Wish for their own Sakes, they had never writ,
Thou then, that see'st how ill I spend my Time,
Teach me for Pity, how to make a Rhime;
And, if th' Instructions chance to prove in vain,
Teach—how ne'er to write again.
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