Besides the danger that ensu'th, To him that speaks or writes the truth, The premium is so small;
To be called poet and wear bays, And factor turn of songs and plays, This is no wit at all.
Wit only good to sport and sing, Is a needless and an endless thing. Give me the wit that can't speak sense, Nor read it, but in's own defence,
Ne'er learn'd but of his grannum : He that can buy, and sell, and cheat, May quickly make a shift to get
His thousand pound per annum; And purchase, without much ado, The poems and the poet too.
INSPIRED with love and kindled by that flame, Which from your eye and conversation came, I proceed versifier, and can't choose, Since you are both my patron and my Muse. Whose fair example makes us know and do, You make us poets, and you feed us too.
And though where'er you are is Helicon. Since all the Muses proudly wait upon Your parts and person too; while we sit here And like Baal's priests our flesh do cut and tear. Yet, for our lives, can't make our baggage Muse Lend us a lift, or one rich thought infuse, Or be as much as midwife to a quibble, But leave us to ourselves with pangs to scribble What, were we wise, we might well blush to view : While we're invoking them, they're courting you. Yet I conceive (and won't my notion smother) You and your house contribute to each other. Such hills, such dales, such plains, such rocks, such And such a confluence of all such things [springs, As raise and gratify the Muses, so That in one night I was created ro- That's half a poet, I can't reach to £T, Because I'm not a perfect poet, yet, And I despair perfection to attain, Unless I'm sent to school to you again.
Alas, sir, London is no place for verse! Ingenious harmless thoughts, polite and terse, Our age admits not, we are wrapp'd in smoke, And sin, and business, which the Muses choke. Those things in which true poesy takes pleasure, We here do want; tranquillity and leisure. Yet we have wits, and some that for wits go, Some real ones, and some that would be so, But 'tis ill-natured wit, and such as still, To th' subject or the object worketh ill; A wit to cheat, to ruin, to betray, Which renders useless what we do or say. This wit will not bear verse, some things we have, Who in their out-side do seem brisk and brave, And are as gaudy as the chancellor's purse; But full as empty too. And here's our curse, Few men discern the difference 'twixt wit That's sterling, and that's not, but looks like it. Inrich us with your presence, make us know How much the nation does to Derby owe
But if your business will not be withstood, Do what you can, since you can't what you would. Those lovely sportings of your frolic Muse, Wherewith you blest me, send me to peruse; And out of gratitude I'll send you mine, They'll rub your virtues, and so make them shine. Your charity and patience will in them, Find work t'acquit, what justice must condemn. And if you please send one propitious line, To dignify these worthless toys of mine. The reader charm'd by your's, may be so bold To read o'er mine, which else he'd not behold; And then in spite of envy, pride, or lying, Must say h' has met with something worth the buying.
WHEN in this dirty corner of the world, Where all the rubbish of the rest is hurl'd, Both men and manners; this abandon'd place, Where scarce the Sun dares shew his radiant face, I met thy lines, they made me wond'ring stand, At thy unknown, and yet the friendly hand. Straight through the air m' imagination flew To ev'ry region I bad seen, or knew; And kindly bless'd (at her returning home) My greedy ear, with the glad name of Brome. Then I reproach'd myself for my suspence, And mourn'd my own want of intelligence, That could not know thy celebrated Muse, (Though mask'd with all the art that art can use) At the first sight, which to the dullest eyes, No names conceal'd, nor habit can disguise. For who (ingenious friend) but only thee, (Who art the soul of wit, and courtesy) Writes in so pure, an unaffected strain, As shows, wit's ornament is to be plain; Or would caress a man condemn'd to lie Buried from all humane society, 'Mongst brutes and bandogs in a Lernean fen, Whose natives have nor souls, nor shape of men? How could thy Muse, that in her noble flight, The boding raven cuff'd, and in his height Of untam'd power, and unbounded place, Durst mate the haughty tyrant to his face, Deign an inglorious stoop, and from the sky Fall down to prey on such a worm as I? Her seeing (sure) my state made her relent, And try to charm me from my banishment; Nor has her charitable purpose fail'd, For when I first beheld her face unveil'd, I kiss'd the paper, as an act of grace Sent to retrieve me from this wretched place, And doubted not to go abroad again
To see the world, and to converse with men : But when I taste the dainties of the flood (Ravish'd from Neptune's table for my food) The Lucrine lake's plump oysters 1 despise, With all the other Roman luxuries, And, wanton grown, contemn the famous breed Of sheep and oxen, which these mountains feed. Then as a snake, benumb'd and fit t' expire, If laid before the comfortable fire Begins to stir, and feels her vitals beat Their healthful motion, at the quick'ning heat: So my poor Muse, that was half starv'd before On these bleak cliffs, nor thought of writing more, Warm'd by thy bounty, now can hiss and spring, And ('tis believ'd by some) will shortly sting
So warm she's grown, and without things like these Minerva must, as well as Venus, freeze.
Thus from a Highlander I straight commence Poet, by virtue of thy influence,
That with one ray can clods and stones inspire, And make them pant and breathe poetic fire. And thus I am thy creature prov'd, who name And fashion take from thy indulgent flame.
What should I send thee then, that may befit A grateful heart, for such a benefit; Or how proclaim, with a poetic grace, What thou hast made me from the thing I was; When all I writ is artless, forc'd, and dull, ́ And mine as empty as thy fancy full? All our conceits, alas! are flat and stale, And our inventions muddy, as our ale: No friends, no visitors, no company, But such, as I still pray, I may not see; Such craggy, rough-hewn rogues, as do not fit, Sharpen and set, but blunt the edge of wit; Any of which (and fear has a quick eye) If through a perspective I chance to spy Though a mile off, I take th' alarm and run, As if I saw the devil, or a dun;
And in the neighbouring rocks take sanctuary, Praying the hills to fall and cover me. So that my solace lies amongst my grounds, And my best company's my horse and hounds. Judge then (my friend) how far I am unfit To traffic with thee in the trade of wit: How bankrupt I am grown of all commerce, Who have all number lost, and air of verse. But if I could in living song set forth, Thy Muse's glory, and thine own true worth, I then would sing an ode, that should not shame, The writer's purpose, nor the subject's name. Yet, what a grateful heart, and such a one, As (by thy virtues) thou hast made thine own, Can poorly pay, accept for what is due, Which if it be not rhyme, I'll swear 'tis true.
TO HIS UNIVERSITY FRIEND. DEAR CAPTAIN,
WANT, the great master of three greater things, Art, strength, and boldness, givcs this letter wings To kiss (that is salute) you and say A. B. To his renowned captain s. P. D.
And to request three greater things than those, Things that beget good verse, and stubborn prose.
The first is drink, which you did promise would Inform the brain, as well as warm the blood; Drink that's as powerful and strong as Hector, And as inspiring as the old poets' nectar, That dares confront the legislative sack, And lends more Greek than your grave patriarch. But you may see here's none, for if that I Had been well wet, these had not been so dry.
The next is money, which you said should be Paid, and it may be 'twas, but not to me. Why (friend) d' you think a man as big about As 1, can live on promises, without Good drink or money? how'll good sack be had? And who can live without sack, or with bad? Whate'er your academics talk or teach, Mind what they do, they mind not what they preach. In public they may rail at pope and Turk, And at the laities avarice have a firck,
And say their aim is all to save the soul, But that soul's money, which does all control; Which I do only by the want on't know, But when it comes, thon't see 'twill wonders do. The third is wit, which you affirmed here Was in your mines, and digg'd up every where. Jests, verses, tales, puns, satires, quibbles too, And certain Bristol words that like wit show. But none on't comes as yet, and all I see Is, you've the wit to keep it all from une. 'Tis troublesome and costly to have much; And if you had it, you would never grutch Your needy friend a little pr'ythee do Send me the last, and I'll get t' other two,
YOUR letter found us at good claret, Such as you should be at, or are at. The lines were good; but that I wonder, As much as at a bladder's thunder, That you who are not us'd to preach, That never to that art could reach, Your letter should so well divide Into the first, third, second, head. Pr'ythee tell me, just then came ye, Before you writ, from C. your Or hadst thou heard some independent First it, and thirdly it, till no end on't? Thirdly from you is as ill sounded, As mass delivered by a Roundhead. Or if your old recorder should Try to speak Latin that is good.
Drink, the first head, you wisely laid, Drink always gets into the head. Drink in plain silly troth you bad, As strong as hop or furnace made, Such as our sophisters do take, When they old Latin jests would break. Such as if your clients drink,
Of law suits they would never think. Such as with beef and mutton were Enough to make you knight o' th' shire.
But that it comes not, you may thank Your Thames, which swell'd above its bank, I think the London brewers plot
To increase the Thames, that we should not, By our sublime and noble beer, Shame all their puddle liquor there. So great the flood here, that the people Were wond'rous 'fraid for your Paul's steeple, Lest we should hear next almanack, How London bridge did fall or shake; Lest it Westminster hall should drown, And then no place should there be found, Where men their gold and silver may Upon the lawyers throw away.
But stay, may be all is lost, Broke by the ice, or stopp'd by frost. Perchance the boatmen let it run, Which either of us would have done. It may be they drew out the vessel, To cheer themselves at merry wassail, Perchance the barrel in the way Did fall upon an holiday; Upon a revel or a wedding,
Or else, it may be, it call'd at Reading, Where the bold route did rant of late, As if they drunk such beer as that.
But if at last it there arrive,
Drink it out while 'tis alive
Let not old gossips of it taste, When they do praise their husbands last; When they tell stories, and do cry For their poor babe that last did die. Nor it to country clients give, When thou dost fees from them receive; But make a fire, and send about For all thy friends, the merry rout. Fetch out the bowl, and drink it up, And think on him that fill'd the cup.
Your next is money, which I promise, Full fifty ponads, alas! the sum is; That too shall quickly follow, if It can be rais'd from strong or tiff. Pray, pray, that each month we may choose New members for the commons' house.
Pray that our act may last all year, That we may sooner spend our beer. Pray that the scholars may drink faster, And larger cups, than they did last year. Pray Heav'n to take away th' excise, Pray, I say, with weeping cyes: Pray our malt grow good and cheap, And then of money expect an heap.
For poems: Tom desires me tell ye, He minds not now his feet, but belly. He must for pulpit now prepare, Or make bills for apothecar- Y, and leave off these barren toys, Which feed not, only make a noise. Yet he would fain from you receive What your more happy Muse did give; Which made protectors love to hear, Though themselves wounded by them were, Songs, which are play'd on every tongue, And make a Christmas when they're sung.
Thus wishing you much mirth and wit, As the lord mayor doth speak and spit: Wishing and praying till I'm weary, That you may drink the best Canary ; That you may have clients many, And talk in Guildhall wise as any; That the rich Londoners may fall out, And go to law till money's all out; That every citizen hate his neighbour, As his wife doth pope and Tyber: That the grave alderman love no man, More than they did the prayer-common; That quarrels long may thence be spun About a whistle or a spoon;
That th' itch of law may infect all London Till you are rich, and they are undone ; That you may keep your good dame yet here, Or when she dies, may find a better; That two hours' prayer and long sermon, You may not hear above each term one: And then your pew may be so easy, That you may sleep whene'er it please ye; That when from tavern late you come, You miss the watch returning home;
Or if you meet th' unmanner'd rabble, You may not outwit the constable.
FROM A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, UPBRAIDING HIN WITH HIS WRITING SONGS.
DEAR friend, believe't, my love has spurr'd me on For once to question thy discretion:
Our judgments jump in both; we both do love Good wine and women: if I disapprove The slights of some, the matter's understood, I'm ne'er the less belov'd by th' truly good.
You'ld have no fancy blown upon, but must Have all new broach'd or cann'd to please your gust.
When this demand of yours is grown as old As what you quarrel at, and as often told, And their's, old wits, that will as much condemn Your novelty, as you can censure them. Now for those robes in which you'll have me dress My homely Muse, and write with loftiness, Talk of state matters, and affairs of kings, Thou know'st we've beat our heads about those Till I'd my teeth near beat out; after all [things, My toil, the worms must turn poetical. He that courts others' ears, may use designs, Be coy and costive; but my harmless lines, If they produce a laughter, are well crown'd: Yet, though they've sought none, have acceptance found.
With these I sport myself, and can invite Myself and friends t'a short and sweet delight; While all our tedious toils, which we call plays, Like the great ship, lie slugging in their bays. And can no service do without great cost And time, and then our time and stomach's lost. But I must write no more, for fear that we Be like those brethren in divinity. Whilst thou dost go to make my flash expire, I raise thy flame, and make it burn much higher. Only because thou doubt'st I should bestow Your lines upon my fiddlers, thou shalt know, That had they been upon a business fit, And were I subject equal to thy wit, They'd gone, and thou shouldst sing them too, and Be both the poet and the fiddler too.
Nor had we men been poets but for you: 'Tis from your sex we've learnt our art and wit, 'Tis for your sakes that we do practise it. Your subtler sex first ventur'd on the tree Where knowledge grew, and pluck'd the fruit, which we
Did only taste, and that at second-hand; Yet by that hand and taste we're all trepann'd, And our posterity the doom endures;
You op'd our eyes, as you know who did yours. By your command this song, thus rudely penn'd, To you I do commit, though not commend. To show what duty I'm arriv'd unto, You cannot sooner bid, than I can do. Nor can your active soul command and sway With more delight and pride, than mine obey, I will not say this poem's bad or good; 'Tis as 'tis lik'd, and as 'tis understood. A poem's life and death dependeth still, Not on the poet's wit, but reader's will. Should it in sense seem rascal, low, and dull, Your eye can make it sprightly, plump, and full And if it should be lame, I hope 'twill be, 'Cause somewhat like yourself, more pleasing t'ye
« EdellinenJatka » |