Classic Poem

I NEVER mourn'd my Want of Wit, till now;
That where I do so much Devotion vow,
Brightest Astrea , to your honour'd Name,
Find my Endeavour will become my Shame.
'Tis you alone, who have the Art, and Wit
T'involve those Praises in the Lines y'have writ,
That we should give you, could we have the Sp'rite,
Vigour, and Force, wherewith your self do write.
Too mean are all th' Applauses we can give:
You on your self, and by your self, shall live;
When all we write will only serve to shew,
How much, in vain Attempt, we flag below.
Some Hands write some things well; are elsewhere lame;
But on all Theams, your Power is the same.
Of Buskin, and of Sock, you know the Pace;
And tread in both, with equal Skill and Grace.
But when you write of Love, Astrea , then
Love dips his Arrows, where you wet your Pen.
Such charming Lines did never Paper grace;
Soft, as your Sex; and smooth, as Beauty's Face.
And 'tis your Province, that belongs to you:
Men are so rude, they fright when they wou'd sue.
You teach us gentler Methods; such as are
The fit and due Proceedings with the Fair.

But why should you, who can so well create,
So stoop, as but pretend, you do translate?
Could you, who have such a luxuriant Vein,
As nought but your own Judgment could restrain;
Who are, your self, of Poesie the Soul,
And whose brave Fancy knocks at either Pole;
Descend so low, as poor Translation,
To make an Author, that before was none?
Oh! Give us, henceforth, what is all your own!
Yet we can trace you here, in e'ery Line;
The Texture's good, but some Threds are too fine:
We see where you let in your Silver Springs;
And know the Plumes, with which you imp his Wings.

But I'm too bold to question what you do,
And yet it is my Zeal that makes me so.
Which, in a Lover, you'l not disapprove:
I am too dull to write, but I can love.