Much have I writt, says Bavius, Mankind knows
By my quick printing how my fancy flows:
Yet Thyrsis (& they say the youth's inspird)
Mindless of mine, your Genius has admird;
When have you ere, or in what paper been,
Where the news faild, among our authors, seen?
In what collection do we meet yr name?
No, what you write, you can your self condemn
& lett the private closett hide from fame.
Here, ink & paper, lett us lock the door,
The Muses flames are quick, weel write an hour,
Then count whose lines are fewer, whose are more.
What shoud I do? The challenge I decline,
& own his readier knack to master mine.
Is witt thus tryd? is this its onely test?
Or is it but the newest, not the best?
You Mighty Bards, whose memorys remain,
& ore oblivion, time, & envy reign,
With your long-labourd works in hand, appear,
Raise your pale conscious lamps, tell ore yr care,
& fright the sudden writers of our times,
from giddy flights & undigested rimes:
Those hardend Browns, that Plague a Judging age,
That scribble fast, & many a thoughtless page,
To prove their title to poetick rage.
How distant are the Beautys from their sight,
Which come by years, & keep a Poem bright.
These catch the little flashes of their witt,
They teach them how to move wth numberd feet,
Then hasty to supply a craving dun,
Or warm from Taverns, to the Press they runn:
No length of Judgement ripens every line,
They own no chain of thought, no great design,
But to succeed, to spurious arts descend,
Which sooth our follys, or our vice defend;
Brisk drunken Catches on the Sober Jest;
Soft luscious Elegys debauch the chast;
Lampoon will rage upon unspotted fame;
& Panegyrick daub a worthless name;
So plants unapt to bear the wintry skys
If dunghill warmth the distant sun supplys
To seasons not their own appear with hast
And while they boast a colour want a tast.
Tis hence the proffit which accrues from all
May now be nothing, & anon be small;
Perhaps the sellers (ventrous race of men)
While their lost pains the writers mourn in vain,
May reap a silver harvest from their pen;
Or both at last (for both a hazzard run)
By the same labours find themselves undon.
they woud be known, tis thats the Poets aim,
Yet few shall have, since few deserve a name,
The rest shall find their hopes at dying fled,
Or ere they dy themselves in fame be dead.
The world woud verse with love & warmth admire,
But the wild managers put out the fire;
For shoud not man respect the sacred thing
Which prophets write, which saints & angells sing?
Be then our poetry, (to make it please,)
Fair sense & virtue, in a charming dress,
Nor publishd soon, it will the more endure,
By being kept for years, of years secure.
The Justest may be partial to his strains,
While the fresh subject on his mind remains,
himself applaud, & evry line approve,
With all the blindness of a fathers love;
Till in cool temper, as at ebb of tide,
He sees those shallows which before coud hide,
Waits till his heat by Just degrees expires,
The Parents dotage by the same retires,
& then hele censure what he now admires;
Hele look his labours ore & ore wth care,
Appeal to Judgement, & consult his ear,
While here he dashes out, & changes there:
He'le figures when they are not proper quit,
& lop rank branches off luxuriant witt
Hele give the swelling verse a sober pace,
He'le smooth the rugged, & the flatt he'le raise;
Then Bid the Polishd lines securely thrive;
and the great founder of their fame survive.
