Classic Poem

Inscrib'd to Mr. R — — G — —

Thou , whose ingenious fertile Brain
Bring'st forth with Pleasure, not with Pain,
Instruct me in the Knack of Chime,
And how to tag my Words with Rhime:
For Phaebus did to Thee impart
His Knowledge in the tuneful Art:
And something more he gave as due,
The Gift of versifying too.

So smoothly flows your Vein, and clear,
So swest your Choice, yet so severe:
Each Thought and Word in order plac'd,
Each Line, with Wit, and Learning grac'd:
And when you condescend to write,
The Muse unask'd assists your flight.

But I! by vain Caprice betray'd,
Have of a Pastime Penance made:
And for some Folly, or some Crime,
Am doom'd perpetually to Rhime.
In vain! I change the tuneful Feet,
In vain! my silly Noddle beat;
For when the Verse requires White,
The Muse presents me Black, in Spight;
And when I'd sing some wond'rous Bard,
Instead of Dryden, she writes — —
My Patience lost! I then give o'er,
And almost vow I'll write no more.

Yet, when I've somewhat eas'd my Spleen,
And rail'd at Muse and Hippocrene,
Methinks the Goddess doth appear,
And chide me for my dull Despair.
Then, Maugre all my former Pain,
I snatch the Paper up again;
Forget what I so lately spoke,
And great Apollo's Aid invoke.
Yet, if for Rhime I could admit
A cold, insipid Epithet,
I need not biting Fingers stand,
But take a jingling Word at Hand:
For if I prais'd some beauteous Phillis,
I'd call her, whiter! than the Lillies.
Or else compare her to the Sun,
That Metapbor would easy run.
Transposing thus a few fine Words,
Which Custom, or kind Chance affords,
I without Art, or Genius either,
Might quickly tack two Lines together,
But my cross Muse such Verse refuses,
And trembles at each Word she chooses;
Disdains to fill a vacant Place,
With Words that may her Work disgrace;
Vex'd at her Choice, begins a-new,
And writing three Words, blots out two:
Yet still dislikes! still strives to mend!
And thus her Labours never end.

Curs'd be the Wretch! who first confin'd,
To Rules of Art, the nobler Mind:
Curs'd! be the First this Art admir'd,
Curs'd! be the Daemon, which inspir'd,
And fetter'd up his Thoughts sublime,
In strict Imprisonment of Rhime:
Forcing us piece-meal to reherse,
And split the Sentence with the Verse.

Oh Pylades! how blest were I
In my belov'd Obscurity?
If I had ne'er the Muse addrest,
Nor with this Frenzy been possest:
No pamper'd Nun herself could please
With fewer Cares, or greater Ease;
Or lead a more unactive Life,
More free from Fear, or void of Strife.

But now, this tedious Doggrel Strain,
With nightly Fumes, invades my Brain:
And when the Town with Sleep is blest,
'Tis then the Muse disturbs my Rest;
Commands me from my Bed to rise,
And follow her where-e'er she flies.
Then like some poor enchanted Fool,
That's made a rambling Witches Tool,
I can't forbear, but up must get,
And run, and strive, and pant, and sweat;
'Till wearied with this haggard Trade,
And by her hum'rous Will delay'd,
With Di'conten I fir me down,
And envy Secretary Er — n,
Or Maevius, whose prolifick Muse
Each Month whole Volumes does produce:
And with a formal dull Pretence,
Sets up for Wit, in Spight of Sense.
What, tho not one poetick Line
Does in an hundred Pages shine;
The Pow'r of Wit! he can defy,
And yet find Fools enough to buy.
Maevius! Is sure himself to please,
Observes no Rules, and writes with Ease;
Admires his own gigantick Strain,
Then hugs himself, and writes again:
Where-e'er he goes, he doth reherse,
And murders all his Friends with Verse.

But 'tis not so with Wits polite;
They choose with Care each Word they write;
And think the Muse too slowly flies!
If too Sublime she does not rise.
The critick World they charm with Ease,
But ne'er their nicer Selves can please.
So far from Pride, or vain Conceit,
So modest, yet so nobly Great;
That when they her their Works admir'd,
They wish they ne'er had been inspir'd.

Oh thou! who seest my jaded Muse,
Prithee thy kind Endeavours use:
Teach me the Method of Inditing;
Or qualify this Itch of Writing.