Miscellaneous poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

About twelve Months ago, upon searching my Brain,
To try how 'twould serve me some desperate Day,
I soon found I had got a poetical Vein;
So (my Lord) I sat down, and I scribled a Play.

When a Finis was writ, and the Book copy'd fair,
Tho' not very ambitious of seeming a Poet,
But expecting to meet a Reward worth my Care,
To our Set of Comedians I ventur'd to shew it.

They laugh'd, while I read; so the Jest was not lost,
They swore it was handsome, and promis'd to play it;
But faith I've discover'd long since to my Cost,
'Tis harder to do a Thing much, than to say it.

Last Season they told me, because my young Muse
Should not want her Conveniencies, they would not stint her
To a Compass of Time; with this handsome Excuse
They civilly stav'd off my Play all the Winter.

Then the Summer came on, all my Hopes to fulfil,
For Summer Assizes (my Lord) is the Name on't,

Yet the Season's near spent, tho' it lies dormant still,
While ev'ry one wonders what the Devil became on't.

Now I think this is hard, I'm accus'd for a Wit,
And to very small Purpose repeat my Denial;
Yet they won't hold th'ASSIZES to search what I writ,
Nor have a Court summon'd to bring on my Tryal.

So, in private I'm bam'd, tho' in publick with Praise
I am fed; at this Rate I shall soon become Carrion,
For Fame is but thin windy Diet, and Bays
Is a Plant that (your Lordship knows) always was barren.

I have search'd for the Reason, and find it springs hence,
(So these Sparks very often declar'd, I assure ye)
No Person of Honour undertakes my Defence,
Nor ever gave Orders to impannel a Jury.

Now (my Lord) I would beg—but you'll certainly say
That my Stock of Assurance, than Wit is much greater,
Consider (my Lord) that I once wrote a Play,
And address with the Air of a Poet in Metre.

I said I would beg—but for what dare n't tell,
Only say, tho' the Muses don't much love to quarrel,
Yet Poetical Bays never thrives half so well
As under the Shade of the Conqueror's Lawrel.

May it please you therefore, to command the Comedians,
To let me have fair Play, and soon, at their Hands,
For to you their best Patron they owe all Obedience;
And who fears Success where TYRAWLEY commands.

So for your good Lordship, by Night and by Day,
Your Petitioner shall sing, but can't promise to pray.