Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

For whom Apollo opens every store,
Shews you his Mines, and helps you to the Ore,
Who knows so well, in the disputes of Wit,
Where sometimes to Defend, and where to hit;
Teach me, Great Master of your Art, to Rhime,
To spare my Study, and to save my time;
When e're you please, the happy Rhimes attend,
And wait your Summons at the Verses end;
They ne're perplex you, but observe your pace,
And where you want, you find them in their place;
Whilst I, whom Caprice, Vanity and Whim;
Have for my Sins, I fear condemn'd to Rhime,
Rack my poor thoughts in such attempts as these,
And sweat in vain for what you find with ease.
When the fit takes me, oft from Morn to Night
I study hard, but scribble Black for White,

To draw the Picture of a perfect Beau,
The Rhime obliges me to name B---;
To name an Author of the first degree,
Reason's for Dryden, but the Rhime for Lee;
Vext at these difficulties, I give o're,
Sad, weary and confus'd, resolve to write no more;
I curse the Spright, with which I am possest,
And swear to drive the Dæmon from my Breast;
In vain I curse Apollo and the Nine,
They quickly tempt me from my late design;
My Fire's rekindle, I retake my Pen,
And spite of all my Curses, write again;
My Oaths forgot, my Paper I resume,
From Verse to Verse attending what will come.
If for a Rhime, my Muse in such a fit,
Would frigid words and Epithites permit,

Or take the next I meet, and tack 'em on,
To piece a Line, 'tis what the rest have done;
To praise a Phillis for a thousand Charms;
The next verse shews the Poet in her Arms;
When Cloris is inform'd how much he Loves,
The Rhime informs you that she cruel proves:
When he would talk of Stars or glittering Skies,
Will he not think of Cælia's sparkling Eyes?
Cælia, Heavens Master-piece, Divinely Fair,
The Rhime makes Cœlia still without compare;
With all these shining words by chance compos'd,
The Noun and Verb an hundred times transpos'd,
How many Poems could I, piece by piece,
Stitch to my own, and fill a Book with ease.
But when I write —
My Judgment trembling at the choice of words,
Not one improper to the sense affords?

It ne're allows that an insipid Phrase,
Should justle in to fill a vacant place,
But Writes, and adds, and razes what is done,
And in four words it seldom passes one.
Curse on the Man, who in a senseless fit,
To Rhimes and Numbers first confin'd his wit,
And giving to his words a narrow bound,
First lost his Reason for an empty sound:
Had I ne're Travell'd in such dangerous ways,
No Pains nor Envy had disturb'd my days;
But o're my Bottle with a Jest and Song,
My pleasant Minutes would have rowl'd along,
Like a Fat Prebend, careless and at Ease,
Content and Lazy, I had liv'd in peace,
Slept well at Night, and loiter'd all the Day.
From Passion ever free, and ever gay;
Then limiting th' Ambition of my mind,
I had not courted Fortune to be kind,

Despising all her Pomp, I should have known,
No state of Life more happy than my own;
Then fond of Rest, and negligent of Fame,
I had ne're gone to Court to get a Name,
But liv'd in private, and in full delight,
If no Malitious Power had made me write.
From the sad hour this frenzy first began,
With its black Vapours to molest my Brain,
That some cross Dæmon, Jealous of my Ease;
Flatter'd my Muse, she had the Power to please,
Nail'd to my Works, and adding something new,
Or razing out, or still on the Review,
Still in this wretched Trade I pass my days.
So low, that B--- can my Envy raise,
Oh! happy B--- thy Prodigious Muse,
Huge Books of Verse can in a year produce.

True-Rude and Dull, to some she gives offence,
And seems Created in despite of sense;
Yet she will find whatever we have said,
Both Sots to Print her Works, and Fools to read.
If thy verse Jingle with a lucky Rhime,
Ne're mind the Thought, but Prosecute the Chime:
Unhappy those who would to Sense confine
Their Verse, and Genius will with Method joyn,
Since Fools have all the pleasure, who dispence
With Art in writing, and despise the Sense,
Who always Fond of what they last brought forth,
Admire their skill, and wonder at their worth;
While Wits sublime their utmost Fancies stretch,
To get those heights at last they cannot reach;

And discontented still at what they write,
Can't please themselves, when others they delight;
What all the World applaud they scarce will own,
And wish for their repose it was undone.
You then, who see the Ills my Muse endures,
Shew me a way to Rhime, or teach me yours,
But least I should in vain your care implore,
Teach me Oh!—how to Rhime no more.