 | The Seasons |  |
3
AN IMITATION OF SPENSER.
I
Ye baleful Follow'rs of the Blatant Beast,Who censure Matters far beyond your Ken,
Behold, I now present you with a Feast;
Rush forth like Wolves from your sequester'd Den,
And mangle all the Labours of my Pen.
Show, ye rude Louts your lewd unhallow'd Rage,
In this I share the Fate of greater Men;
Pale Envy ever gnaws the laurel'd Page,
And 'gainst all worthy Wight doth War perpetual wage.
4
II
If thee, sweet Nymph, these simple Lines aggrate,If I may hope to merit thine Esteem,
Not with the proudest would I change my State
Of those who deeply drink Castalia's Stream,
And on Parnassus catch th'inspiring Dream.
Say, thou dear Noursling of the Paphian Queen,
Wilt thou, ah! wilt thou patronize my Theme,
So shall this Measure blunt the Tooth of Spleen,
Nor Critic's Tongue shall blast such favour'd Lines, I ween.
III
See! how the Tribe of Witlings shun the Place,And deep in Shades conceal their Fronts of Brass;
The Coxcomb talks of Feathers, Cloaths, and Lace,
Nay Codrus un-impeach'd doth let me pass,
Codrus, of Pride and Spite a mighty Mass.
Thus when a Set of Imps at Midnight play,
And tear the Coarses from the hallow'd Grass;
Soon as the Sun unbars the Gates of Day,
They fear his heav'nly Light, and melt in Air away.
| The Seasons | |