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| WEARY, at last, of the Pindarick way, | |
| Thro’ which adventurously the Muse wou’d stray; | |
| To Fable I descend with soft delight, | |
| Pleas’d to translate, or easily endite: | |
| Whilst aery fictions hastily repair | 5 |
| To fill my page, and rid my thoughts of care, | |
| As they to birds and beasts new gifts impart, | |
| And teach as poets shou’d, whilst they divert. | |
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| But here, the critick bids me check this vein. | |
| Fable, he crys, tho’ grown th’ affected strain, | 10 |
| But dies, as it was born, without regard or pain. | |
| Whilst of his aim the lazy trifler fails, | |
| Who seeks to purchase fame by childish tales. | |
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| Then, let my verse, once more, attempt the skies, | |
| The easily persuaded poet cries, | 15 |
| Since meaner works you men of taste despise. | |
| The walls of Troy shall be our loftier stage, | |
| Our mighty theme the fierce Achilles’ rage. | |
| The strength of Hector, and Ulysses’ arts | |
| Shall boast such language, to adorn their parts, | 20 |
| As neither Hobbes nor Chapman cou’d bestow, | |
| Or did from Congreve, or from Dryden flow. | |
| Amidst her towers, the dedicated horse | |
| Shall be receiv’d, big with destructive force; | |
| Till men shall say, when flames have brought her down, | 25 |
| ‘Troy is no more, and Ilium was a town.’ | |
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| Is this the way to please the Men of Taste, | |
| The interrupter cries, this old Bombast? | |
| I’m sick of Troy, and in as great a fright, | |
| When some dull pedant wou’d her wars recite, | 30 |
| As was soft Paris, when compell’d to fight. | |
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| To shades and springs shall we awhile repair, | |
| The Muse demands, and in that milder air | |
| Describe some gentle swain’s unhappy smart | |
| Whose folded arms still press upon his heart, | 35 |
| And deeper drive the too far enter’d dart? | |
| Whilst Phillis with a careless pleasure reigns, | |
| The joy, the grief, the envy of the plains; | |
| Heightens the beauty of the verdant woods, | |
| And softens all the murmurs of the floods. | 40 |
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| Oh! stun me not with these insipid dreams, | |
| Th’ eternal hush, the lullaby of streams | |
| Which still, he cries, their even measures keep, | |
| Till both the writers, and their readers sleep. | |
| But urge thy pen, if thou wou’d’st move our thoughts, | 45 |
| To shew us private, or the publick faults. | |
| Display the times, High-Church or Low provoke; | |
| We’ll praise the weapon, as we like the stroke, | |
| And warmly sympathizing with the spite | |
| Apply to thousands what of one you write. | 50 |
| Then, must that single stream the town supply, | |
| The harmless Fable-writer do’s reply, | |
| And all the rest of Helicon be dry? | |
| And when so many choice productions swarm, | |
| Must only Satire keep your fancies warm? | 55 |
| Whilst even there, you praise with such reserve, | |
| As if you’d in the midst of plenty starve, | |
| Tho’ ne’er so liberally we authors carve. | |
| Happy the men, whom we divert with ease, | |
| Whom Operas and Panegyrics please. | 60 |
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