Classic Poem

( TO A BAD POET .)

Great famous wit, whose rich and easy vein,
Free, and unus'd to drudgery and pain,
Has all Apollo's treasure at command,
And how good verse is coin'd do'st understand;
In all Wit's combats master of defence,
Tell me, how dost thou pass on rhyme and sense?
'Tis said they' apply to thee, and in thy verse
Do freely range themselves as volunteers,
And without pain, or pumping for a word,
Place themselves fitly of their own accord.
I, whom a loud caprich (for some great crime
I have committed) has condemn'd to rhyme,
With slavish obstinacy vex my brain
To reconcile 'em, but, alas! in vain:
Sometimes I set my wits upon the rack,
And, when I would say white, the verse says black.
When I would draw a brave man to the life,
It names some slave that pimps to his own wife,
Or base poltioon, that would have sold his daughter,
If he had met with any to have bought her.
When I would praise an author, the untoward
Damn'd sense, says Virgil, but the rhyme — [says Howard.]
In fine, whate'er I strive to bring about,
The contrary (spite of my heart) comes out.
Sometimes, enrag'd for time and pains mispent,
I give it over, tir'd, and discontent;
And, damning the dull fiend a thousand times,
By whom I was possess'd, forswear all rhymes;
But having curs'd the Muses, they appear,
To be reveng'd for 't, ere I am aware.
Spite of myself I straight take fire again,
Fall to my task with paper, ink, and pen,
And breaking all the oaths I made, in vain
From verse to verse expect their aid again.
But if my Muse or I were so discreet
To' endure, for rhyme's sake, one dull epithet,
I might, like others, easily command
Words without study, ready and at hand.
In praising Chloris, moons, and stars, and skies,
Are quickly made to match her face and eyes; —
And gold and rubies, with as little care,
To fit the colour of her lips and hair;
And mixing suns, and flowers, and pearls, and
Make 'em serve all complexions at once.
With these fine fancies, at hap-hazard writ,
I could make verses without art or wit,
And, shifting forty times the verb and noun,
With stol'n impertinence patch up mine own:
But in the choice of words my scrupulous wit
Is fearful to pass one that is unfit;
Nor can endure to fill up a void place,
At a line's end, with one insipid phrase;
And, therefore, when I scribble twenty times,
When I have written four, I blot two rhymes.
May he be damn'd who first found out that curse,
To' imprison and confine his thoughts in verse;
To hang so dull a clog upon his wit,
And make his reason to his rhyme submit.
Without this plague I freely might have spent
My happy days with leisure and content;
Had nothing in the world to do or think,
Like a fat priest, but whore, and eat, and drink;
Had past my time as pleasantly away,
Slept all the night, and loiter'd all the day.
My soul, that's free from care, and fear, and hope,
Knows how to make her own ambition stoop,
To' avoid uneasy greatness and resort,
Or for preferment following the Court.
How happy had I been if, for a curse,
The Fates had never sentenc'd me to verse?
But ever since this peremptory vein,
With restless frenzy, first possess'd my brain,
And that the devil tempted me, in spite
Of my own happiness, to judge and write,
Shut up against my will, I waste my age
In mending this, and blotting out that page,
And grow so weary of the slavish trade,
I envy their condition that write bad.
O happy Scudery! whose easy quill
Can, once a month, a mighty volume fill;
For though thy works are written in despite
Of all good sense; impertinent, and slight;
They never have been known to stand in need
Of stationer to sell, or sot to read;
For so the rhyme be at the verse's end,
No matter whither all the rest does tend.
Unhappy is that man who, spite of's heart,
Is forc'd to be tied up to rules of art.
A fop that scribbles does it with delight,
Takes no pains to consider what to write,
But, fond of all the nonsense he brings forth,
Is ravish'd with his own great wit and worth;
While brave and noble writers vainly strive
To such a height of glory to arrive;
But still with all they do unsatisfied:
Ne'er please themselves, though all the world beside:
And those whom all mankind admire for wit,
Wish for their own sakes they had never writ.
Thou, then, that seest how ill I spend my time,
Teach me, for pity, how to make a rhyme;
And if the' instructions chance to prove in vain,
Teach — how ne'er to write again.