ODE 10.
[His Defence against the idle Critic.]
He Ryme nor mars, nor makes;
Nor addeth it, nor takes,
From that which we propose:
Things imaginary
Do so strangely vary
That quickly we them lose.
And what's quickly begot,
As soon again is not;
This do I truly know.
Yea, and what's born with pain;
That, Sense doth long'st retain,
Gone with a greater flow.
Yet this Critic so stern,
(But whom, none must discern
Nor perfectly have seeing)
Strangely lays about him,
As nothing without him
Were worthy of being,
That I myself betray
To that most public way;
Where the World's old bawd
Custom, that doth humour,
And by idle rumour,
Her dotages applaud.
That whilst she still prefers
Those that be wholly hers,
Madness and Ignorance;
I creep behind the Time,
From spertling with their crime;
And glad too with my chance.
O wretched World the while,
When the evil most vile
Beareth the fairest face;
And inconstant lightness,
With a scornful slightness,
The best things doth disgrace!
Whilst this strange knowing beast,
Man; of himself the least,
His envy declaring,
Makes Virtue to descend,
Her title to defend
Against him; much preparing.
Yet these me not delude,
Nor from my place extrude,
By their resolvèd hate;
Their vileness that do know:
Which to myself I show,
To keep above my fate.