University of Virginia Library

To you, dear doctor, I appeal,
My faults and beauties to reveal;
Failings in me my friend may spy,
Which may escape my partial eye;
And beauties, if found out by you,
'Twould give me hopes they might be true.
But here, amongst the common rout
Of praise and blame, I'm left in doubt
Whether my works are good or bad;
Whether they praise me or degrade.
Some flattering people say they see
Prior's ease reviv'd in me:
Others, whose censure I think hard,
Degrade me down to doggrel Ward.
The difference wide betwixt these two!
Pray tell me truly what think you.
But quite forgetting you're my friend,
Let judgment your opinion send:
I know, my friend, you think well of me,
Yet praise me not because you love me:
Far rather I'd your censure hear,
Than an encomium unsincere:
I should be fond, I own, of fame,
Yet give me honest praise, or blame.
Soon level with the ground shall lie
His pyramid of fame, tho' high,
Whose basis stood on flattery:
Then shall be seen, to his disgrace,
What dirt and rubbish built the place.
How should I wish I ne'er had wrote,
Should this hereafter be my lot?
Then sooth me not, but tell me true,
What you think I ought to do.
Shall I suppress this glimmering light?
Or may I hope 'twill e'er burn bright?
Methinks I would not have it said,
As all my praise, when I am read,
“The Lines, considering whence they came,
“Are well enough, nor merit blame.
Such cold encomiums won't suffice;
A fame with such restrictions I despise.
Yet when I inward turn my thoughts,
View all my weaknesses and faults;
I own my rashness, blush with shame,
Lay down my pen, nor hope for fame.
But soon the rhyming fit returns,
The fire within impatient burns;
My pen resum'd, a line or two
With ease and wit, perhaps may flow,
And then I stop—
Dullness regains her ancient seat,
Retards my flight, and damps my heat;
Involves my fire in flame and smoke,
And turns true wit to some false joke.

Say, gentle bard, harmonious Prior!
Did thy soft muse with thee expire?
O she expir'd, she dy'd with thee,
'Tis but her shadow dwells with me!
No Prior's ease moves in these lines,
Nor judgment guides, nor fancy shines,
Nor strength, nor wit, like his, refines.
Ah no! 'tis flatt'ry all, nor dare
These empty lines with his compare.
'Tis true, sometimes an easy flow
Of words may into metre grow,
And form a smoothish verse or two;
Or here and there a single line,
With a good thought perhaps may shine;
As here and there a glimmering star
Does in a cloudy hemisphere:
But these, alas! no more admit.
The name of poetry or wit,
Than those odd stars, with scatter'd light,
Make what we call a starry night:
'Tis the whole firmament must glow,
And the whole piece the poet shew.

O shall I e'er arrive to this?
Shall I e'er see a finish'd piece?
No, I must never hope t' excel,
I feel my weakness too, too well.
My genius leads me on 'tis true,
But what can genius unassisted do?
No aids of learning grace my Song,
To me no languages belong,
Save just to spell my mother-tongue.
O poor pretence to poetry!
What can be thought to come from me?
Shall future ages see me shine,
My name, O Prior! join'd with thine?
Vainly I hope such fame, alas!
I but record my own disgrace.
These lines can only live to be
Examples of false poetry:
Can only last to future ages,
Quoted in criticks lashing pages.
And shall they thus, thus give my name
A monument of lasting fame?
O hateful thought! cease, cease my pen,
And never, never write again.