A Letter from the Country to a Friend in Town
A Letter from the Country to a Friend in Town, giving an Account of the Author's Inclinations to Poetry.
As to that Poet (if so great a one, as he,
May suffer in comparison with me)
When heretofore in Scythian exile pent,
To which he by ungrateful Rome was sent,
If a kind Paper from his Country came,
And wore subscrib'd some known and faithful Name;
That like a pow'rful Cordial, did infuse
New life into his speechless gasping Muse,
And strait his Genius, which before did seem
Bound up in Ice, and frozen as the Clime,
By its warm force, and friendly influence thaw'd,
Dissolv'd apace, and in soft numbers flow'd:
Such welcome here, dear Sir, your Letter had
With me shut up in close constraint as bad:
Not eager Lovers, held in long suspence,
With warmer Joy, and a more tender sence
Meet those kind Lines, which all their wishes bless,
And Sign and Seal deliver'd Happiness:
My grateful Thoughts so throng to get abroad,
They over-run each other in the crowd:
To you with hasty flight they take their way,
And hardly for the dress of words will stay.
Yet pardon, if this only fault I find,
That while you praise too much, you are less kind:
Consider, Sir, 'tis ill and dang'rous thus
To over-lay a young and tender Muse:
Praise, the fine Diet, which we're apt to love,
If given to excess, does hurtful prove:
Where it does weak, distemper'd Stomachs meet.
That surfeits, which should nourishment create.
Your rich Perfumes such fragrancy dispense,
Their sweetness overcomes and palls my sence:
On my weak head you heap so many Bays,
I sink beneath 'em, quite opprest with Praise,
And a resembling fate with him receive,
Who in too kind a triumph found his Grave,
Smother'd with Garlands, which Applauders gave.
To you these Praises justlier all belong,
By alienating which, your self you wrong:
Whom better can such commendations fit
Than you, who so well teach and practise Wit?
Verse, the great boast of drudging Fools, from some,
Nay most of Scriblers with much straining come:
They void 'em dribling, and in pain they write,
As if they had a Strangury of Wit:
Your Pen uncall'd they readily obey,
And scorn your Ink should flow so fast as they:
Each strain of yours so easie does appear,
Each such a graceful negligence does wear,
As shews you have none, and yet want no care.
None of your serious pains or time they cost,
But what thrown by, you can afford for lost:
If such the fruits of your loose leisure be,
Your careless minutes yield such Poetry;
We guess what proofs your Genius would impart,
Did it employ you, as it does divert:
But happy you, more prudent and more wise,
With better aims have fixt your noble choice.
While silly I all thriving Arts refuse,
And all my hopes, and all my vigor lose,
In service on that worst of Jilts, a Muse,
For gainful business court ignoble ease,
And in gay Trifles wast my ill-spent days,
Little I thought, my dearest Friend, that you
Would thus contribute to my Ruine too:
O're-run with filthy Poetry and Rhyme,
The present reigning evil of the time,
I lack'd, and (well I did my self assure)
From your kind hand I should receive a cure:
When (lo!) instead of healing Remedies,
You cherish and encourage the Disease:
Inhumane you help the Distemper on,
Which was before but too inveterate grown.
As a kind looker on, who intrest shares,
Tho not in's stake, yet in his hopes and fears,
Would to his Friend a pushing Gamester do,
Recal his Elbow when he hasts to throw;
Such a wise course you should have took with me,
A rash and vent'ring fool in Poetry.
Poets are Cullies, whom Rook Fame draws in,
And wheadles with deluding hopes to win:
But, when they hit, and most successful are,
They scarce come off with a bare saving share.
Oft (I remember) did wise Friends dissuade,
And bid me quit the trifling barren Trade.
Oft have I tried (Heav'n knows) to mortifie
This vile and wicked lust of Poetry:
But still unconquer'd it remains within,
Fixt as an Habit, or some darling Sin.
In vain I better studies there would sow,
Often I've tried, but none will thrive, or grow:
All my best thoughts, when I'd most serious be,
Are never from its foul infection free:
Nay (God forgive me) when I say my Prayers,
I scarce can help polluting them with Verse:
That fabulous Wretch of old reverst I seem,
Who turn what e're I touch to Dross and Rhyme.
Oft to divert the wild Caprice, I try
If Sovereign Wisdom and Philosophy
Rightly applied, will give a remedy:
Strait the great Stagyrite I take in hand,
Seek Nature and my Self to understand:
Much I reflect on his vast Worth and Fame,
And much my low and groveling aims condemn,
And quarrel, that my ill-pack'd fate should be
This vain, this worthless thing call'd Poetry:
But when I find this unregarded Toy
Could his important Thoughts and Pains employ,
By reading there I am but more undone,
And meet that danger, which I went to shun.
Oft when ill Humor, Shagrin, Discontent
Give leisure my wild Follies to resent,
I thus against my self my Passion vent.
" Enough, mad rhiming Sot, enough for shame,
" Give o're, and all thy Quills to Tooth-picks damn:
" Didst ever thou the Altar rob, or worse,
" Kill the Priest there, and Maids Receiving force?
" What else could merit this so heavy Curse?
" The greatest curse, I can, I wish on him,
" (If there be any greater than to rhime)
" Who first did of the lewd invention think,
" First made two lines with sounds resembling clink,
" And, swerving from the easie paths of Prose,
" Fetters and Chains did on free Sense impose:
" Curst too be all the fools, who since have went
" Misled in steps of that ill President:
" Want be entail'd their lot: — and on I go,
Wreaking my spight on all the jingling Crew:
Scarce the beloved Cowley scapes, tho I
Might sooner my own curses fear, than he:
And thus resolv'd against the scribling vein,
I deeply swear never to write again.
But when bad Company and Wine conspire
To kindle and renew the foolish Fire,
Straitways relaps'd, I feel the raving fit
Return, and strait I all my Oaths forget:
The Spirit, which I thought cast out before,
Enters again with stronger force and power,
Worse than at first, and tyrannizes more.
No sober good advice will then prevail,
Nor from the raging Frenzy me recal:
Cool Reason's dictates me no more can move
Than men in Drink, in Bedlam , or in Love:
Deaf to all means which might most proper seem
Towards my cure, I run stark mad in Rhime:
A sad poor haunted wretch, whom nothing less
Than Prayers of the Church can dispossess.
Sometimes, after a tedious day half spent,
When Fancy long has hunted on cold Scent,
Tir'd in the dull and fruitless chase of Thought,
Despairing I grow weary, and give out:
As a dry Lecher pump'd of all my store,
I loath the thing, 'cause I can do't no more:
But, when I once begin to find again,
Recruits of matter in my pregnant Brain,
Again more eager I the haunt pursue,
And with fresh vigor the lov'd sport renew:
Tickled with some strange pleasure, which I find,
And think a secresie to all mankind,
I please my self with the vain, false delight,
And count none happy, but the Fops that write.
'Tis endless, Sir, to tell the many ways,
Wherein my poor deluded self I please:
How, when the Fancy lab'ring for a Birth,
With unfelt Throws brings its rude issue forth:
How after, when imperfect shapeless Thought
Is by the Judgment into Fashion wrought.
When at first search I traverse o're my mind,
Nought but a dark and empty Void I find:
Some little hints at length, like sparks, break thence,
And glimm'ring Thoughts just dawning into sence:
Confus'd a while the mixt Idea's lie,
With nought of mark to be discover'd by,
Like colours undistinguisht in the night,
Till the dusk images, mov'd to the light,
Teach the discerning Faculty to chuse,
Which it had best adopt, and which refuse.
Here rougher strokes, touch'd with a careless dash,
Resemble the first sitting of a face:
There finisht draughts in form more full appear,
And to their justness ask no further care.
Mean while with inward joy I proud am grown,
To see the work successfully go on:
And prize my self in a creating power,
That could make something, what was nought before.
Sometimes a stiff, unwieldy thought I meet,
Which to my Laws will scarce be made submit:
But, when, after expence of pains and time,
'Tis manag'd well, and taught to yoke in Rhime,
I triumph more, than joyful Warriours wou'd,
Had they some stout and hardy Foe subdu'd:
And idly think, less goes to their Command,
That makes arm'd Troops in well-plac'd order stand,
Than to the conduct of my words, when they
March in due ranks, are set in just array.
Sometimes on wings of Thought I seem on high,
As men in sleep, tho motionless they lie,
Fledg'd by a Dream, believe they mount and fly:
So Witches some enchanted Wand bestride,
And think they through the airy Regions ride,
Where Fancy is both Traveller, Way and Guide:
Then strait I grow a strange exalted thing,
And equal in conceit, at least a King:
As the poor Drunkard, when Wine stums his brains,
Anointed with that liquor, thinks he reigns.
Bewitch'd by these Delusions 'tis I write,
(The tricks some pleasant Devil plays in spight)
And when I'm in the freakish Trance, which I
Fond silly wretch, mistake for Ecstasie,
I find all former Resolutions vain,
And thus recant them, and make new again.
" What was't, I rashly vow'd? shall ever I
" Quit my beloved Mistress, Poetry?
" Thou sweet beguiler of my lonely hours,
" Which thus glide unperceiv'd with silent course:
" Thou gentle Spell, which undisturb'd do'st keep
" My Breast, and charm intruding care asleep:
" They say, thou'rt poor and unendow'd, what tho?
" For thee I this vain, worthless world forego:
" Let Wealth and Honor be for Fortunes slaves,
" The Alms of Fools, and prize of crafty Knaves:
" To me thou art, what ere th' ambitious crave,
" And all that greedy Misers want, or have:
" In Youth, or Age, in Travel, or at Home,
" Here, or in Town, at London , or at Rome ,
" Rich, or a Beggar, free, or in the Fleet,
" What ere my fate is, 'tis my fate to write.
Thus I have made my shrifted Muse confess,
Her secret Feebles, and her weaknesses:
All her hid Faults she sets expos'd to view,
And hopes a gentle Confessor in you:
She hopes an easie pardon for her sin,
Since 'tis but what she is not wilful in,
Nor yet has scandalous nor open been.
Try if your ghostly counsel can reclaim
The heedless wanton from her guilt and shame:
At least be not ungenerous to reproach
That wretched frailty, which you've help'd debauch.
'Tis now high time to end, for fear I grow
More tedious than old Doaters, when they woo,
Than travel'd Fops, when far-fetch'd lies they prate,
Or flatt'ring Poets, when they dedicate.
No dull forgiveness I presume to crave,
Nor vainly for my tiresom length ask leave:
Lest I, as often formal Coxcombs use,
Prolong that very fault, I would excuse:
May this the same kind welcome find with you,
As yours did here, and ever shall: Adieu.
As to that Poet (if so great a one, as he,
May suffer in comparison with me)
When heretofore in Scythian exile pent,
To which he by ungrateful Rome was sent,
If a kind Paper from his Country came,
And wore subscrib'd some known and faithful Name;
That like a pow'rful Cordial, did infuse
New life into his speechless gasping Muse,
And strait his Genius, which before did seem
Bound up in Ice, and frozen as the Clime,
By its warm force, and friendly influence thaw'd,
Dissolv'd apace, and in soft numbers flow'd:
Such welcome here, dear Sir, your Letter had
With me shut up in close constraint as bad:
Not eager Lovers, held in long suspence,
With warmer Joy, and a more tender sence
Meet those kind Lines, which all their wishes bless,
And Sign and Seal deliver'd Happiness:
My grateful Thoughts so throng to get abroad,
They over-run each other in the crowd:
To you with hasty flight they take their way,
And hardly for the dress of words will stay.
Yet pardon, if this only fault I find,
That while you praise too much, you are less kind:
Consider, Sir, 'tis ill and dang'rous thus
To over-lay a young and tender Muse:
Praise, the fine Diet, which we're apt to love,
If given to excess, does hurtful prove:
Where it does weak, distemper'd Stomachs meet.
That surfeits, which should nourishment create.
Your rich Perfumes such fragrancy dispense,
Their sweetness overcomes and palls my sence:
On my weak head you heap so many Bays,
I sink beneath 'em, quite opprest with Praise,
And a resembling fate with him receive,
Who in too kind a triumph found his Grave,
Smother'd with Garlands, which Applauders gave.
To you these Praises justlier all belong,
By alienating which, your self you wrong:
Whom better can such commendations fit
Than you, who so well teach and practise Wit?
Verse, the great boast of drudging Fools, from some,
Nay most of Scriblers with much straining come:
They void 'em dribling, and in pain they write,
As if they had a Strangury of Wit:
Your Pen uncall'd they readily obey,
And scorn your Ink should flow so fast as they:
Each strain of yours so easie does appear,
Each such a graceful negligence does wear,
As shews you have none, and yet want no care.
None of your serious pains or time they cost,
But what thrown by, you can afford for lost:
If such the fruits of your loose leisure be,
Your careless minutes yield such Poetry;
We guess what proofs your Genius would impart,
Did it employ you, as it does divert:
But happy you, more prudent and more wise,
With better aims have fixt your noble choice.
While silly I all thriving Arts refuse,
And all my hopes, and all my vigor lose,
In service on that worst of Jilts, a Muse,
For gainful business court ignoble ease,
And in gay Trifles wast my ill-spent days,
Little I thought, my dearest Friend, that you
Would thus contribute to my Ruine too:
O're-run with filthy Poetry and Rhyme,
The present reigning evil of the time,
I lack'd, and (well I did my self assure)
From your kind hand I should receive a cure:
When (lo!) instead of healing Remedies,
You cherish and encourage the Disease:
Inhumane you help the Distemper on,
Which was before but too inveterate grown.
As a kind looker on, who intrest shares,
Tho not in's stake, yet in his hopes and fears,
Would to his Friend a pushing Gamester do,
Recal his Elbow when he hasts to throw;
Such a wise course you should have took with me,
A rash and vent'ring fool in Poetry.
Poets are Cullies, whom Rook Fame draws in,
And wheadles with deluding hopes to win:
But, when they hit, and most successful are,
They scarce come off with a bare saving share.
Oft (I remember) did wise Friends dissuade,
And bid me quit the trifling barren Trade.
Oft have I tried (Heav'n knows) to mortifie
This vile and wicked lust of Poetry:
But still unconquer'd it remains within,
Fixt as an Habit, or some darling Sin.
In vain I better studies there would sow,
Often I've tried, but none will thrive, or grow:
All my best thoughts, when I'd most serious be,
Are never from its foul infection free:
Nay (God forgive me) when I say my Prayers,
I scarce can help polluting them with Verse:
That fabulous Wretch of old reverst I seem,
Who turn what e're I touch to Dross and Rhyme.
Oft to divert the wild Caprice, I try
If Sovereign Wisdom and Philosophy
Rightly applied, will give a remedy:
Strait the great Stagyrite I take in hand,
Seek Nature and my Self to understand:
Much I reflect on his vast Worth and Fame,
And much my low and groveling aims condemn,
And quarrel, that my ill-pack'd fate should be
This vain, this worthless thing call'd Poetry:
But when I find this unregarded Toy
Could his important Thoughts and Pains employ,
By reading there I am but more undone,
And meet that danger, which I went to shun.
Oft when ill Humor, Shagrin, Discontent
Give leisure my wild Follies to resent,
I thus against my self my Passion vent.
" Enough, mad rhiming Sot, enough for shame,
" Give o're, and all thy Quills to Tooth-picks damn:
" Didst ever thou the Altar rob, or worse,
" Kill the Priest there, and Maids Receiving force?
" What else could merit this so heavy Curse?
" The greatest curse, I can, I wish on him,
" (If there be any greater than to rhime)
" Who first did of the lewd invention think,
" First made two lines with sounds resembling clink,
" And, swerving from the easie paths of Prose,
" Fetters and Chains did on free Sense impose:
" Curst too be all the fools, who since have went
" Misled in steps of that ill President:
" Want be entail'd their lot: — and on I go,
Wreaking my spight on all the jingling Crew:
Scarce the beloved Cowley scapes, tho I
Might sooner my own curses fear, than he:
And thus resolv'd against the scribling vein,
I deeply swear never to write again.
But when bad Company and Wine conspire
To kindle and renew the foolish Fire,
Straitways relaps'd, I feel the raving fit
Return, and strait I all my Oaths forget:
The Spirit, which I thought cast out before,
Enters again with stronger force and power,
Worse than at first, and tyrannizes more.
No sober good advice will then prevail,
Nor from the raging Frenzy me recal:
Cool Reason's dictates me no more can move
Than men in Drink, in Bedlam , or in Love:
Deaf to all means which might most proper seem
Towards my cure, I run stark mad in Rhime:
A sad poor haunted wretch, whom nothing less
Than Prayers of the Church can dispossess.
Sometimes, after a tedious day half spent,
When Fancy long has hunted on cold Scent,
Tir'd in the dull and fruitless chase of Thought,
Despairing I grow weary, and give out:
As a dry Lecher pump'd of all my store,
I loath the thing, 'cause I can do't no more:
But, when I once begin to find again,
Recruits of matter in my pregnant Brain,
Again more eager I the haunt pursue,
And with fresh vigor the lov'd sport renew:
Tickled with some strange pleasure, which I find,
And think a secresie to all mankind,
I please my self with the vain, false delight,
And count none happy, but the Fops that write.
'Tis endless, Sir, to tell the many ways,
Wherein my poor deluded self I please:
How, when the Fancy lab'ring for a Birth,
With unfelt Throws brings its rude issue forth:
How after, when imperfect shapeless Thought
Is by the Judgment into Fashion wrought.
When at first search I traverse o're my mind,
Nought but a dark and empty Void I find:
Some little hints at length, like sparks, break thence,
And glimm'ring Thoughts just dawning into sence:
Confus'd a while the mixt Idea's lie,
With nought of mark to be discover'd by,
Like colours undistinguisht in the night,
Till the dusk images, mov'd to the light,
Teach the discerning Faculty to chuse,
Which it had best adopt, and which refuse.
Here rougher strokes, touch'd with a careless dash,
Resemble the first sitting of a face:
There finisht draughts in form more full appear,
And to their justness ask no further care.
Mean while with inward joy I proud am grown,
To see the work successfully go on:
And prize my self in a creating power,
That could make something, what was nought before.
Sometimes a stiff, unwieldy thought I meet,
Which to my Laws will scarce be made submit:
But, when, after expence of pains and time,
'Tis manag'd well, and taught to yoke in Rhime,
I triumph more, than joyful Warriours wou'd,
Had they some stout and hardy Foe subdu'd:
And idly think, less goes to their Command,
That makes arm'd Troops in well-plac'd order stand,
Than to the conduct of my words, when they
March in due ranks, are set in just array.
Sometimes on wings of Thought I seem on high,
As men in sleep, tho motionless they lie,
Fledg'd by a Dream, believe they mount and fly:
So Witches some enchanted Wand bestride,
And think they through the airy Regions ride,
Where Fancy is both Traveller, Way and Guide:
Then strait I grow a strange exalted thing,
And equal in conceit, at least a King:
As the poor Drunkard, when Wine stums his brains,
Anointed with that liquor, thinks he reigns.
Bewitch'd by these Delusions 'tis I write,
(The tricks some pleasant Devil plays in spight)
And when I'm in the freakish Trance, which I
Fond silly wretch, mistake for Ecstasie,
I find all former Resolutions vain,
And thus recant them, and make new again.
" What was't, I rashly vow'd? shall ever I
" Quit my beloved Mistress, Poetry?
" Thou sweet beguiler of my lonely hours,
" Which thus glide unperceiv'd with silent course:
" Thou gentle Spell, which undisturb'd do'st keep
" My Breast, and charm intruding care asleep:
" They say, thou'rt poor and unendow'd, what tho?
" For thee I this vain, worthless world forego:
" Let Wealth and Honor be for Fortunes slaves,
" The Alms of Fools, and prize of crafty Knaves:
" To me thou art, what ere th' ambitious crave,
" And all that greedy Misers want, or have:
" In Youth, or Age, in Travel, or at Home,
" Here, or in Town, at London , or at Rome ,
" Rich, or a Beggar, free, or in the Fleet,
" What ere my fate is, 'tis my fate to write.
Thus I have made my shrifted Muse confess,
Her secret Feebles, and her weaknesses:
All her hid Faults she sets expos'd to view,
And hopes a gentle Confessor in you:
She hopes an easie pardon for her sin,
Since 'tis but what she is not wilful in,
Nor yet has scandalous nor open been.
Try if your ghostly counsel can reclaim
The heedless wanton from her guilt and shame:
At least be not ungenerous to reproach
That wretched frailty, which you've help'd debauch.
'Tis now high time to end, for fear I grow
More tedious than old Doaters, when they woo,
Than travel'd Fops, when far-fetch'd lies they prate,
Or flatt'ring Poets, when they dedicate.
No dull forgiveness I presume to crave,
Nor vainly for my tiresom length ask leave:
Lest I, as often formal Coxcombs use,
Prolong that very fault, I would excuse:
May this the same kind welcome find with you,
As yours did here, and ever shall: Adieu.
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