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Deare Friend.
I heare this Towne does soe abound,
With
sawcy Censurers, that faults are found,
With what of
late wee (in Poetique Rage)
Bestowing, threw away on
the dull Age;
But (howsoe're Envy, their Spleen may
raise,
To Robb my Brow, 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 defence,
T'obtaine one Line, of your well
worded Sense
I'd be content t'have writ the
Brittish Prince.
I'm none of those who thinke
themselves inspir'd,
Nor write with the vaine hopes
to be admir'd;
But from a Rule (I have upon long
tryall)
T'avoyd with care, all sort of self denyall.
Which way soe're desire and fancy leade
(Contemning Fame) that Path I boldly tread;
And if
exposeing what I take for Witt,
To my deare self, a
Pleasure I beget,
Noe matter tho' the Censring
Crittique fret.
Those whom my Muse displeases, are
at strife
With equall Spleene, against my Course of
life,
The least delight of which, I'd not forgoe,
For all the flatt'ring Praise, Man can bestow.
If I designd to please the way were then,
To mend my
Manners, rather than my Pen;
The first's unnaturall,
therefore unfit,
And for the Second, I despair of
it,
Since Grace, is not soe hard to get as Witt.
Perhaps ill Verses, ought to be confin'd,
In meere
good Breeding, like unsav'ry Wind;
Were Reading
forc'd, I shou'd be apt to thinke
Men might noe more
write scurvily, than stinke:
But 'tis your choyce,
whether you'll Read, or noe,
If likewise of your
smelling it were soe,
I'd Fart just as I write, for
my owne ease,
Nor shou'd you be concern'd, unlesse
you please:
I'll owne, that you write better than I
doe,
But I have as much need to write, as you.
What though the Excrement of my dull Braine,
Runns in a harsh, insipid Straine,
Whilst your rich
Head, eases it self of Witt?
Must none but Civet-Catts,
have leave to shit?
In all I write, shou'd Sense,
and Witt, and Rhyme
Faile me at once, yet something
soe Sublime,
Shall stamp my Poem, that the World may
see,
It cou'd have beene produc'd, by none but me.
And that's my end, for Man, can wish noe more,
Then soe to write, as none ere writ before.
Yet why
am I noe Poet, of the tymes?
I have Allusions,
Similies and Rhymes,
And Witt, or else 'tis hard
that I alone,
Of the whole Race of Mankind, shou'd
have none.
Unequally, the Partiall Hand of Heav'n,
Has all but this one only Blessing giv'n;
The
World appeares like a great Family,
Whose Lord
opprest with Pride, and Poverty,
(That to a few,
great Plenty he may show)
Is faine to starve the
Num'rous Traine below:
Just soe seemes Providence,
as poor and vaine,
Keeping more Creatures, than it
can maintaine.
Here 'tis profuse, and there it
meanly saves,
And for One Prince, it makes Ten
Thousand Slaves:
In Witt alone, it has beene
Magnificent,
Of which, soe just a share, to each is
sent
That the most Avaricious are content.
For
none e're thought, (the due Division's such),
His
owne too little, or his Friends too much.
Yet most
Men shew, or find great want of Witt,
Writeing
themselves, or Judging what is writ:
But I, who am
of sprightly Vigour full
Looke on Mankind, as
Envious, and dull.
Borne to my self, my self I like
alone,
And must conclude my Judgment good, or none.
(For shou'd my Sense be nought, how cou'd I know,
Whether another Man's, were good, or noe?)
Thus,
I resolve of my owne 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 thereby,
Why
then the World, shall suffer for't, not I.
Did e're
this sawcy World, and I agree?
To let it have its
Beastly will on me?
Why shou'd my Prostituted Sense,
be drawne,
To ev'ry Rule, their musty Customes
spawne?
But Men, will Censure you; Tis Two to one
When e're they Censure, they'll be in the wrong.
There's not a thing on Earth, that I can name
Soe
foolish, and soe false, as Common Fame.
It calls the
Courtier Knave, the plaine Man rude,
Haughty the
grave, and the delightfull Lewd.
Impertinent the
briske, Morosse the sad,
Meane the Familiar, the
Reserv'd one Mad.
Poor helplesse Woman, is not
favour'd more
She's a slye Hipocryte, or Publique
Whore.
Then who the Devill, wou'd give this -- to be
free
From th'Innocent Reproach of Infamy?
These
things consider'd, make me (in despight
Of idle
Rumour,) keepe at home, and write.
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