Classic Poem

Dear Friend,
I hear this town does so abound
With saucy censurers that faults are found
With what of late we in poetic rage
Bestowing threw away on the dull age.
But howsoe'er envy their spleens may raise
To rob my brows of the deserved bays,
Their thanks at least I merit, since through me
They are partakers of your poetry;
And this is all I'll say in my defense:
T' obtain one line of your well-worded sense
I'd be content t' have writ the British Prince.
I'm none of those who think themselves inspired
Nor write with the vain hope to be admired,
But from a rule I have upon long trial
T' avoid with care all sort of self-denial.
Which way soe'er desire and fancy lead,
Contemning fame, that path I boldly tread,
And, if exposing what I take for wit,
To my dear self a pleasure I beget,
No matter though the cens'ring critics fret.
These whom my muse displeases are at strife
With equal spleen against my course of life,
The least delight of which I'll not forego
For all the flatt'ring praise man can bestow.
If I designed to please, the way were then
To mend my manners rather than my pen:
The first's unnatural, therefore unfit,
And for the second I despair of it.
Since grace is not so hard to get as wit,
Perhaps ill verses ought to be confined
(In mere good breeding) like unsav'ry wind.
Were reading forced, I should be apt to think
Men might no more write scurvily than stink,
But 'tis your choice whether you'll read or no.
If likewise of your smelling it were so,
I'd fart just as I write for my own ease,
Nor should you be concerned unless you please.
I'll own that you write better than I do,
But I have as much need to write as you.
What though the excrement of my dull brain
Flows in a harsh, insipid strain,
Whilst your rich head eases itself of wit?
Must none but civet cats have leave to shit?
In all I write should sense and wit and rhyme
Fail me at once, yet something so sublime
Shall stamp my poem that the world may see
It could have been produced by none but me;
And that's my end, for man can wish no more
Than so to write as none e'er writ before.
Yet why am I no poet of the times?
I have allusions, similes, 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 Heav'n
Has all but this one only blessing giv'n.
The world appears like a great family
Whose lord, oppressed with pride and poverty,
That to a few great bounty he may show,
Is fain to starve the num'rous train below.
Just so seems Providence, as poor and vain,
Keeping more creatures than it can maintain.
Here 'tis profuse, and there it meanly saves,
And for one prince it makes ten thousand slaves.
In wit alone 't has been magnificent,
Of which so just a share to each is sent
That the most avaricious is content;
For none e'er thought the due divisions such,
His own too little or his friend's too much.
Yet most men show or find great want of wit,
Writing themselves or judging what is writ,
But I, who am of spritely vigor full,
Look on mankind as envious and dull.
Born to my self, my self I like alone
And must conclude my judgment good or none.
For could my sense be naught, how should I know
Whether another man's were good or no?
Thus I resolve 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 shall suffer for 't, not I.
Did e'er this saucy world and I agree
To let it have its beastly will on me?
Why should my prostituted sense be drawn
To ev'ry rule their musty customs spawn?
But men will censure, yet 'tis ten to one
Whene'er they censure they'll be in the wrong.
There's not a thing on earth that I can name
So foolish and so false as common fame.
It calls the courtier knave, the plain man rude,
Haughty the grave, and the delightful lewd,
Impertinent the brisk, morose the sad,
Mean the familiar, the reserved one mad.
Poor, helpless woman is not favored more:
She's a sly hypocrite or public whore.
Then who the devil would give this--to be free
From th' innocent reproach of infamy?
These things considered make me, in despite
Of idle rumor, keep at home and write.