And damn his foul, and swear, and curse,
And crucify his Saviour worse
Than thofe Jew-troopers that threw out,
When they were raffling for his coat;
Denounce revenge, as if they heard,
And rightly understood and fear'd,
And would take heed another time,
How to commit fo bold a crime;
When the poor bones are innocent
Of all he did, or faid, or meant,
And have as little fenfe, almoft,
As he that damns them when he ́as loft;
As if he had rely'd upon
Their judgment rather than his own;
And that it were their fault, not his,
That manag'd them himself amifs,
And gave them ill inftructions how
To run, as he would have them do,
And then condemns them fillily
For having no more wit than he?
REAT famous wit! whofe 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 doft thou pass on rhyme and fense?
'Tis faid 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 fome great crime
I have committed) has condemn'd to rhyme,
With flavish obstinacy vex my brain
To reconcile them, but, alas! in vain.
the rack,
Sometimes I fet my wits upon
And, when I would fay white, the verfe fays black;
When I would draw a brave man to the life,
It names fome flave that pimps to his own wife,
Or bafe poltroon, that would have fold his daughter,
If he had met with any to have bought her;
When I would praise an author, the untoward
Damn'd fenfe, fays Virgil, but the rhyme.
In fine, whate'er I ftrive to bring about,
The contrary (fpite of my heart) comes out.
Sometimes, enrag'd for time and pains mispent,
Igive it over, tir'd, and discontent,
And, damning the dull fiend a thousand times,
By whom I was poffefs'd, forfwear all rhymes;
But, having curs'd the Muses, they appear,
To be reveng'd for 't, ere I am aware.
Spite of myself, I strait take fire again,
Fall to my task with paper, ink, and pen,
And, breaking all the oaths I made, in vain
From verse to verfe expect their aid again,
But, if my Mufe or I were fo difcreet
T endure, for rhyme's fake, one dull epithet,
I might, like others, easily command ·
Words without ftudy, ready and at hand..
In praifing 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 funs, and flowers, and pearl, and stones, Make them serve all complexions at once.
Ver. 22.] Damn'd fenfe, fays Virgil, but the rhyme This blank, and another at the clofe of the Poem, the Author evidently chofe fhould be fupplied by the rea der. It is not my bufinefs, therefore, to deprive him. of that fatisfaction..
With thefe fine fancies, at hap-hazard writ,
I could make verfes without art or wit,
And, fhifting forty times the verb and noun,
With ftol'n impertinence patch up mine own:
But in the choice of words my fcrupulous 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 infipid phrafe ;
And, therefore, when I fcribble twenty times,
When I have written four, I blot two rhymes.
May he be damn'd who first found out that curfe, 55
T' imprison and confine his thoughts in verse;
To hang fo 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 leifure and content;
Had nothing in the world to do or think,
Like a fat prieft, but whore, and eat, and drink ;
Had paft my time as pleasantly away,
Slept all the night, and loiter'd all the day.
My foul, that's free from care, and fear, and hope, 65 Knows how to make her own ambition stoop,
T'avoid uneafy greatness and refort,
Or for preferment following the Court.
How happy had I been if, for a curfe,
The Fates had never fentenc'd me to verfe!
But, ever fince this peremptory vein,
With restless frenzy, firft poffefs'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 fo weary of the flavish trade,
I envy their condition that write bad.
O happy Scudery! whofe eafy quill
Can, once a month, a mighty volume fill;
For, though thy works are written in despite
Of all good sense, impertinent and flight,
They never have been known to stand in need
Of stationer to fell, or fot to read;
For, fo the rhyme be at the verse's end,
No matter whither all the reft does tend.
Unhappy is that man who, spite of 's heart,
Is forc'd to be ty'd up to rules of art.
A fop that fcribbles does it with delight,
Takes no pains to confider what to write,
But, fond of all the nonfenfe he brings forth,
Is ravish'd with his own great wit and worth ;
While brave and noble writers vainly strive
To fuch a height of glory to arrive;
But, still with all they do unfatisfy'd,
Ne'er please themselves, though all the world befide
And those whom all mankind admire for wit,
Wish, for their own fakes, they had never writ.
Thou, then, that feeft how ill I fpend my time,
Teach me, for pity, how to make a rhyme ;
And, if th' inftructions chance to prove in vain,
Teach how ne'er to write again.
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