By the next poft I will fuch stories tell,
As, join'd to these, shall to a volume fwell;
As true as heaven, more infamous than hell..
But you are tir'd, and fo am I. Farewell.
EAR friend, I hear this town does fo abound. I
In faucy cenfurers, that faults are found
With what of late we, in poetic rage,
Bestowing, threw away on the dull age.
But (howfoe'er envy their spleen may raise,
To rob my brows of the deserved bays)
Their thanks, at least, I merit; fince through me
They are partakers of your poetry.
And this is all I'll fay in my defence,
T'obtain one line of your well-worded sense,
I'll be content t' have writ the " British Prince."
I'm none of those who think themselves infpir'd,
Nor write with the vain hope to be admir'd;
But from a rule I have (upon long trial)
T' avoid with care all fort of felf-denial.
Which way foe'er defire and fancy lead,
(Contemning fame) that path I boldly tread:
And if expofing what I take for wit,
To my dear felf a pleasure I beget,
No matter though the cenfuring critics fret.
Thefe whom my Mufe difpleases are at ftrife,
With equal spleen, against my course of life;
The leaft delight of which I'll not forego,
For all the flattering praise man can bestow.
If I defign'd to please, the way were then
To mend my manners, rather than my pen :
The firft's unnatural, therefore unfit;
And for the fecond I defpair of it,
Since grace is not fo hard to get as wit:
Perhaps ill verses ought to be confin'd,
In mere good-breeding, like unfavoury wind.
Were reading forc'd, I should be apt to think,
Men might no more write fcurvily than stink.
I'll own that you write better than I do,
But I have as much need to write as you.
In all I write, fhould fenfe, and wit, and rhyme,
Fail me at once, yet fomething fo fublime
Shall ftamp my poem, that the world may fee,
It could have been produc'd by none but me.
And that's my end; for man can wish no more
Than fo to write, as none e'er writ before;
Yet why am I no poet of the times?
I have allufions, fimilies, and rhymes,
And wit; or else 'tis hard that I alone,
Of the whole race of mankind, should have none.
Unequally the partial hand of heaven
Has all but this one only bleffing given.
The world appears like a great family,
Whofe lord, opprefs'd with pride and poverty,
(That to a few great bounty he may fhow)
Is fain to ftarve the numerous train below.
Juft fo feems Providence, as poor and vain,
Keeping more creatures than it can maintain :
Here 'tis profufe, and there it meanly faves,
And for one prince, it makes ten thousand slaves.
In wit alone 't has been magnificent,
Of which so just a fhare to each is fent,
That the moft avaricious are content.
For none e'er thought (the due divifion's fuch)
His own too little, or his friend's too much.
Yet moft men fhew, or find, great want of wit,
Writing themselves, or judging what is writ.
But I, who am of fprightly vigour full,
Look on mankind as envious and dull.
Born to myself, I like myself alone,
And must conclude my judgment good, or mone:
For could my fense be naught, how should I know
Whether another man's were good or no?
Thus I refolve of my own poetry,
That 'tis the best; and there's a fame for me.
If then I'm happy, what does it advance,
Whether to merit due, or arrogance ?
Oh, but the world will take offence hereby!
Why then the world fhall fuffer for 't, not I.
Did e'er this faucy world and I agree,
To let it have its beaftly will on me?
Why fhould my prostituted fenfe be drawn,
To every rule their mufty cuftoms spawn?
But men may cenfure you; 'tis two to one,
Whene'er they cenfure, they'll be in the wrong.
There's not a thing on earth, that I can name,
So foolish, and so falfe, as common fame.
It calls the courtier knave, the plain-man rude,
Haughty the grave, and the delightful lewd,
Impertinent the brifk, morofe the fad,
Mean the familiar, the referv'd-one mad.
Poor helpless woman is not favour'd more,
She's a fly hypocrite, or public whore.
Then who the devil would give this---to be free
From th' innocent reproach of infamy?
These things confider'd, make me (in despight
Of idle rumour) keep at home and write.
I, who to my cost already am
One of those strange prodigious creatures man,
A fpirit free, to choose for my own share,
What fort of flesh and blood I pleas'd to wear,
I'd be a dog, a monkey, or a bear,
Or any thing, but that vain animal,
Who is fo proud of being rational,
The fenfes are too grofs, and he'll contrive
A fixth, to contradict the other five;
And, before certain inftinct, will prefer
Reason, which fifty times for one does err.
Reafon, an ignis fatuus of the mind,
Which leaves the light of nature, fenfe, behind :
Pathlefs and dangerous wandering ways it takes,
Through error's fenny bogs, and thorny brakes;
Whilft the mifguided follower climbs with pain
Mountains of whim fies, heapt in his own brain:
Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong
down
Into Doubt's boundless fea, where like to drown
Books bear him up a while, and make him try
To fwim with bladders of philofophy;
In hopes ftill to o'ertake the skipping light,
The vapour dances in his dazzled fight,
Till, spent, it leaves him to eternal night.
Then Old Age and Experience, hand in hand,
Lead him to Death, and make him understand,
After a fearch fo painful and fo long,
That all his life he has been in the wrong.
Huddled in dirt, this reafoning engine lies,
Who was so proud, fo witty, and so wife:
Pride drew him in, as cheats their bubbles catch,
And made him venture to be made a wretch:
His wifdom did his happiness deftroy,
Aiming to know the world he should enjoy :
And wit was his vain frivolous pretence,
Of pleafing others at his own expence;
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