 | The first epistle of the second book of Horace, imitated |  |
My Liege! why Writers little claim your thought,
I guess; and, with their leave, will tell the fault:
We Poets are (upon a Poet's word)
Of all mankind, the creatures most absurd:
The season, when to come, and when to go,
To sing, or cease to sing, we never know;
And if we will recite nine hours in ten,
You lose your patience, just like other men.
Then too we hurt our selves, when to defend
A single verse, we quarrel with a friend;
Repeat unask'd; lament, the Wit's too fine
For vulgar eyes, and point out ev'ry line.
But most, when straining with too weak a wing,
We needs will write Epistles to the King;
And from the moment we oblige the town,
Expect a Place, or Pension from the Crown;
Or dubb'd Historians by express command,
T'enroll your triumphs o'er the seas and land;
Be call'd to Court, to plan some work divine,
As once for Loüis, Boileau and Racine.
I guess; and, with their leave, will tell the fault:
We Poets are (upon a Poet's word)
Of all mankind, the creatures most absurd:
21
To sing, or cease to sing, we never know;
And if we will recite nine hours in ten,
You lose your patience, just like other men.
Then too we hurt our selves, when to defend
A single verse, we quarrel with a friend;
Repeat unask'd; lament, the Wit's too fine
For vulgar eyes, and point out ev'ry line.
But most, when straining with too weak a wing,
We needs will write Epistles to the King;
And from the moment we oblige the town,
Expect a Place, or Pension from the Crown;
Or dubb'd Historians by express command,
T'enroll your triumphs o'er the seas and land;
Be call'd to Court, to plan some work divine,
As once for Loüis, Boileau and Racine.
| The first epistle of the second book of Horace, imitated | |