Thus sang the Nymph! so rarely-well inspired,
That all the hearers, her brave Strains admired;
And (as I heard by some that there attended)
When this her Song was finished, all was ended.
A Postscript.
If any carp, for that my younger Times
Brought forth such idle fruit, as these slight rhymes,
It is no matter, so they do not swear
That they so ill employed, never were.
Whilst their Desires, perhaps, they looselier spent;
I gave my heats of youth this better vent:
And, oft, by writing thus, the blood have tamed,
Which some, with reading wanton Lays enflamed.
Nor care I, though their censure some have past,
Because my Songs exceed the Fidler's Last:
For do they think that I will make my Measures
The longer, or the shorter, for their pleasures?
Or maim, or curtalise my free Invention,
Because Fools weary are, of their attention!
No! Let them know, who do their length condemn;
I Make to please myself, and not for them!
