Classic Poem

Occasion'd by some Persons doubting the Author's Capacity, and denying him the Credit of his own Works

Resign thy pipe! Thy wonted lays forego!
The muse has now become thy greatest foe.
With taunts and jeers and most unfriendly wrongs
The flaunting rabble pay thee for thy songs.
Untuneful is our native language now,
Nor must the bays adorn a British brow.
The wanton vulgar scorn their mother tongue,
And all our home-bred bards have bootless sung.
A false politeness has possess'd the isle,
And ev'rything that's English is old style.

Ev'n heaven-born Purcell now is held in scorn;
Purcell, who did a brighter age adorn.
That nobleness of soul, that martial fire
Which did our British Orpheus once inspire
To rouse us all to arms is all forgot;
We aim at something ... but we know not what.
Effeminate in dress, in manners grown,
We now despise whatever is our own.

So Rome, when famous once for arts and arms,
Betray'd by luxury's enfeebling charms,
Sunk into softness, and its empire lost;
We may be as refin'd, but to our cost.

Then break thy reed, for ever close thy throat,
Nor dare to sing a line, nor pen a note,
Since any other man shall meet with praise
For what from thee will but derision raise.
Determin'd to condemn thy ev'ry deed
Thy foes have vow'd, and thou shalt not succeed.
Go, seek retirement, learn to be obscure;
The wretch that's least observ'd is most secure;
Dost thou write ill, then all against thee join;
Dost thou write well, they swear 'tis none of thine.
Short liv'd applause is stifl'd soon as born,
While nought subsists but envy, censure, scorn.
The jest of coxcombs, ev'ry fool's disdain,
These, these are the rewards of poets' pains.
Far, far away, then, chase the harlot muse,
Nor let her thus thy noon of life abuse;
Be busy, know no joy but sordid pelf,
And wisely care for no man but thyself;
Mix with the common crowd, unheard, unseen,
And be thy only aim the golden mean;
And if again thou tempt the vulgar praise,
May'st thou be crown'd with birch instead of bays.