[His Defence against the idle Critic.]
THe 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.
ODE 11.
To the Virginian Voyage.
