Classic Poem

( UPON PLAGIARIES .)

Why should the world be so averse
To plagiary privateers,
That all men's sense and fancy seize,
And make free prize of what they please?
As if, because they huff and swell,
Like pilferers, full of what they steal,
Others might equal power assume,
To pay 'em with as hard a doom;
To shut them up, like beasts in pounds,
For breaking into others' grounds;
Mark 'em with characters and brands,
Like other forgers of men's hands,
And in effigy hang and draw
The poor delinquents by club-law,
When no indictment justly lies,
But where the theft will bear a price.
For though wit never can be learn'd,
It may be' assum'd, and own'd, and earn'd,
And, like our noblest fruits, improv'd,
By being transplanted and remov'd;
And as it bears no certain rate,
Nor pays one penny to the state,
With which it turns no more to' account
Than virtue, faith, and merit's wont;
Is neither moveable, nor rent,
Nor chattle, goods, nor tenement,
Nor was it ever pass'd by' entail,
Nor settled upon the heirs-male;
Or if it were, like ill-got land,
Did never fall to' a second hand;
So 'tis no more to be engross'd,
Than sunshine or the air inclos'd,
Or to propriety confin'd,
Than the' uncontroll'd and scatter'd wind.
For why should that which Nature meant
To owe its being to its vent;
That has no value of its own,
But as it is divulg'd and known;
As perishable and destroy'd,
As long as it lies unenjoy'd;
Be scanted of that liberal use,
Which all mankind is free to choose;
And idly hoarded where 'twas bred,
Instead of being dispers'd and spread?
And the more lavish and profuse,
'Tis of the nobler general use;
As riots, though supplied by stealth,
Are wholesome to the commonwealth;
And men spend freelier what they win,
Than what they 'ave freely coming in.
The world's as full of curious wit,
Which those that father never writ,
As 'tis of bastards, which the sot
And cuckold owns, that ne'er begot;
Yet pass as well as if the one
And t' other by-blow were their own.
For why should he that's impotent
To judge, and fancy, and invent,
For that impediment be stopt
To own and challenge, and adopt,
At least the' expos'd and fatherless
Poor orphans of the pen and press,
Whose parents are obscure or dead,
Or in far countries born and bred?
As none but kings have pow'r to raise
A levy, which the subject pays;
And though they call that tax a loan,
Yet, when 'tis gather'd, 'tis their own:
So he that's able to impose
A wit excise on verse or prose,
And, still the abler authors are,
Can make them pay the greater share,
Is prince of poets of his time,
And they his vassals that supply' him;
Can judge more justly' of what he takes
Than any of the best he makes,
And more impartially conceive
What's fit to choose, and what to leave.
For men reflect more strictly' upon
The sense of others than their own;
And wit, that's made of wit and slight,
Is richer than the plain downright:
As salt that's made of salt's more fine,
Than when it first came from the brine;
And spirits of a nobler nature
Drawn from the dull ingredient matter.
Hence mighty Virgil's said, of old,
From dung to have extracted gold,
(As many a lout and silly clown
By his instructions since has done)
And grew more lofty by that means,
Than by his livery-oats and beans,
When from his carts and country farms
He rose a mighty man at arms,
To' whom the Heroics ever since
Have sworn allegiance as their prince,
And faithfully have in all times
Observ'd his customs in their rhymes.
'Twas counted learning once, and wit,
To void but what some author writ,
And what men understood by rote,
By as implicit sense to quote:
Then many a magisterial clerk
Was taught, like singing birds, i' th' dark,
And understood as much of things,
As the' ablest blackbird what it sings;
And yet was honour'd and renown'd
For grave, and solid, and profound.
Then why should those who pick and choose
The best of all the best compose,
And join it by Mosaic art,
In graceful order, part to part,
To make the whole in beauty suit,
Not merit as complete repute
As those who with less art and pains
Can do it with their native brains,
And make the homespun business fit
As freely with their mother wit;
Since what by Nature was denied
By art and industry's supplied,
Both which are more our own, and brave
Than all the alms that Nature gave?
For what we' acquire by pains and art
Is only due to' our own desert;
While all th' endowments she confers,
Are not so much our own as her's,
That, like good fortune, unawares
Fall not to' our virtue, but our shares;
And all we can pretend to merit
We do not purchase, but inherit.
Thus all the great'st inventions, when
They first were found out, were so mean,
That the' authors of them are unknown,
As little things they scorn'd to own;
Until by men of nobler thought
Th' were to their full perfection brought.
This proves that Wit does but rough-hew,
Leaves Art to polish and review,
And that a wit at second hand
Has greatest interest and command;
For to improve, dispose, and judge,
Is nobler than to' invent and drudge.
Invention's humorous and nice,
And never at command applies;
Disdains to' obey the proudest wit,
Unless it chance to be' in the fit;
(Like prophecy, that can presage
Successes of the latest age,
Yet is not able to tell when
It next shall prophesy again)
Makes all her suitors course and wait
Like a proud minister of state,
And, when she's serious, in some freak,
Extravagant, and vain, and weak,
Attend her silly lazy pleasure,
Until she chance to be at leisure:
When 'tis more easy to steal wit;
To clip, and forge, and counterfeit,
Is both the business and delight,
Like hunting-sports, of those that write;
For thievery is but one sort,
The learned say, of hunting-sport.
Hence 'tis that some, who set up first
As raw, and wretched, and unverst,
And open'd with a stock as poor
As a healthy beggar with one sore;
That never writ in prose or verse,
But pick'd, or cut it, like a purse;
And at the best could but commit
The petty-larceny of wit,
To whom to write was to purloin,
And printing but to stamp false coin;
Yet after long and sturdy' endeavours
Of being painful wit receivers,
With gathering rags and scraps of wit,
As paper's made, on which 'tis writ,
Have gone forth authors, and acquir'd
The right — or wrong to be admir'd;
And arm'd with confidence, incurr'd
The fool's good luck, to be preferr'd.
For as a banker can dispose
Of greater sums, he only owes,
Than he who honestly is known
To deal in nothing but his own;
So whosoe'er can take up most,
May greatest fame and credit boast.