YE Lords and Commons, men of wit | |
| And pleasure about town, | |
| Read this, ere you translate one bit | |
| Of books of high renown. | |
| |
| Beware of Latin authors, all, | 5 |
| Nor think your verses sterling, | |
| Tho’ with a golden pen you scrawl, | |
| And scribble in a Berlin. | |
| |
| For not the desk with silver nails, | |
| Nor bureau of expense, | 10 |
| Nor standish well japann’d, avails | |
| To writing of good sense. | |
| |
| Hear how a Ghost in dead of night, | |
| With saucer eyes of fire, | |
| In woful wise did sore affright | 15 |
| A Wit and courtly Squire: | |
| |
| Rare imp of Phœbus, hopeful youth! | |
| Like puppy tame, that uses | |
| To fetch and carry in his mouth | |
| The works of all the Muses. | 20 |
| |
| Ah! why did he write poetry, | |
| That hereto was so civil; | |
| And sell his soul for vanity | |
| To Rhyming and the Devil? | |
| |
| A desk he had of curious work, | 25 |
| With glitt’ring studs about; | |
| Within the same did Sandys lurk, | |
| Tho’ Ovid lay without. | |
| |
| Now, as he scratch’d to fetch up thought, | |
| Forth popp’d the sprite so thin, | 30 |
| And from the keyhole bolted out, | |
| All upright as a pin. | |
| |
| With whiskers, band, and pantaloon, | |
| And ruff composed most duly, | |
| This Squire he dropp’d his pen full soon, | 35 |
| While as the light burnt bluely. | |
| |
| Ho! master Sam, quoth Sandys’ sprite, | |
| Write on, nor let me scare ye! | |
| Forsooth, if rhymes fall not in right, | |
| To Budgell seek or Carey. | 40 |
| |
| I hear the beat of Jacob’s drums, | |
| Poor Ovid finds no quarter! | |
| See first the merry P[embroke] comes | |
| In haste without his garter. | |
| |
| Then Lords and Lordlings, Squires and Knights, | 45 |
| Wits, Witlings, Prigs, and Peers: | |
| Garth at St. James’s, and at White’s, | |
| Beats up for volunteers. | |
| |
| What Fenton will not do, nor Gay, | |
| Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan, | 50 |
| Tom B[urne]t, or Tom D’Urfey may, | |
| John Dunton, Steele, or any one. | |
| |
| If Justice Philips’ costive head | |
| Some frigid rhymes disburses, | |
| They shall like Persian tales be read, | 55 |
| And glad both babes and nurses. | |
| |
| Let W[a]rw[ic]k’s Muse with Ash[urs]t join, | |
| And Ozell’s with Lord Hervey’s, | |
| Tickell and Addison combine, | |
| And P[o]pe translate with Jervas. | 60 |
| |
| L[ansdowne] himself, that lively lord, | |
| Who bows to every lady, | |
| Shall join with F[rowde] in one accord, | |
| And be like Tate and Brady. | |
| |
| Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen; | 65 |
| I pray, where can the hurt lie? | |
| Since you have brains as well as men, | |
| As witness Lady Wortley. | |
| |
| Now, Tonson, list thy forces all, | |
| Review them and tell noses; | 70 |
| For to poor Ovid shall befall | |
| A strange metamorphosis; | |
| |
| A metamorphosis more strange | |
| Than all his books can vapour— | |
| ‘To what (quoth ’Squire) shall Ovid change?’ | 75 |
| Quoth Sandys, ‘To waste paper.’ | |
| |
