II.
If you too great a Prospect doe allow
To those whom Ignorance does at distance Seat,
'Tis not to say, the Object is less great,
But they want sight to apprehend it so:
The ancient Poets in their times,
When thro' the Peopl'd Streets they sung their Rhimes,
Found small applause; they sung but still were poor;
Repeated Wit enough at every door.
T'have made 'em demy Gods! but 'twou'd not do,
Till Ages more refin'd esteem'd 'em so.
The Modern Poets have with like Success,
Quitted the Stage, and Sallyed from the Press.
Great Johnson scarce a Play brought forth,
But Monster-like it frighted at its Birth:
Yet he continued still to write,
And still his Satyr did more sharply bite.
He writ tho certain of his Doom,
Knowing his Pow'r in Comedy:
To please a wiser Age to come:
And though he Weapons wore to Justify
The reasons of his Pen; he cou'd not bring,
Dull Souls to Sense by Satyr, nor by Cudgelling.
III.
In vain the Errors of the Times,
You strive by wholesom Precepts to Confute,
Not all your Pow'r in Prose or Rhimes,
Can finish the Dispute:
'Twixt those that damn, and those that do admire:
The heat of your Poetick fire.
Your Soul of Thought you may imploy
A Nobler way,
Then in revenge upon a Multitude,
Whose Ignorance only makes 'em rude.
Shou'd you that Justice do,
You must for ever bid adieu,
To Poetry divine,
And ev'ry Muse o'th' Nine:
For Malice then with Ignorance would join,
And so undo the World and You:
So ravish from us that delight,
Of seeing the Wonders which you Write:
And all your Glories unadmir'd must lye,
As Vestal Beauties are Intomb'd before they dye.
IV.
Consider and Consult your Wit,
Despise those Ills you must indure:
And raise your Scorne as great as it,
Be Confident and then Secure.
And let your rich-fraught Pen,
Adventure our again;
Maugre the Stormes that do opose its course,
Stormes that destroy without remorse:
It may new Worlds decry,
Which Peopl'd from thy Brain may know
More than the Universe besides can show:
More Arts of Love, and more of Gallantry.
Write on! and let not after Ages say,
The Whistle or rude Hiss cou'd lay
Thy mighty Spright of Poetry,
Which but the Fools and Guilty fly;
Who dare not in thy Mirror see
Their own Deformity:
Where thou in two, the World dost Character,
Since most of Men Sir Graves, or Peacocks are.
V.
And shall that Muse that did ere while,
Chant forth the Glories of the British Isle,
Shall shee who lowder was than Fame;
Now useless lie, and tame?
Shee who late made the Amazons so Great,
And shee who Conquered Scythia too;
(Which Alexander ne're cou'd do)
Will you permitt her to retreat?
Silence will like Submission show:
And give Advantage to the Foe!
Undaunted let her once gain appear,
And let her lowdly Sing in every Ear:
Then like thy Mistris Eyes, who have the skill,
Both to preserve and kill;
So thou at once maist be revenged on those
That are thy Foes,
And on thy Friends such Obligations lay,
As nothing but the Deed the Doer can repay.