Puts lands, and tenements, and stocks,
Into a paltry juggler's box;
And, like an alderman of Gotham,
Embarketh in fo vile a bottom;
Engages blind and senseless hap
'Gainst high, and low, and flur, and knap (As Tartars with a man of straw
Encounter lions hand to paw);
With thofe that never venture more
Than they had fafely' infur'd before;
Who, when they knock the box, and shake,
Do, like the Indian rattle-fnake,
But ftrive to ruin and destroy
Those that mistake it for fair play;
That have their fulhams at command,
Brought up to do their feats at hand;
That understand their calls and knocks,
And how to place themselves i' th' box ;
Can tell the oddfes of all games,
And when to answer to their names;
And, when he conjures them t' appear,
Like imps, are ready every where;
When to play foul, and when run fair
(Out of defign) upon the fquare,
And let the greedy cully win,
Only to draw him further in;
While those with which he idly plays
Have no regard to what he says,
Although he jernie and blafpheme,
When they miscarry, heaven and them,
And damn his foul, and fwear, and curfe,
And crucify his Saviour worfe
Than thofe Jew-troopers that threw out,
When they were raffling for his coat;
Denounce revenge, as if they heard,
And rightly understood and fear'd,
And would take heed another time,
How to commit fo bold a crime;
bones are innocent
Of all he did, or faid, or meant,
And have as little fenfe, almoft,
As he that damns them when he 'as loft;
Their judgment rather than his own;
And that it were their fault, not his,
That manag'd them himself amifs,
And gave them ill inftructions how
To run, as he would have them do,
And then condemns them fillily
For having no more wit than he?
REAT famous wit! whofe rich and easy vein,
Free, and unus'd to drudgery and pain,
Has all Apollo's treasure at command,
And how good verfe is coin'd do'st understand
In all Wit's combats mafter of defence!
Tell me, how dost thou pass on rhyme and sense ?
'Tis faid they' apply to thee, and in thy verse
Do freely range themselves as volunteers,
And without pain, or pumping for a word,
Place themselves fitly of their own accord.
I, whom a loud caprich (för fome great crime
I have committed) has condemn'd to rhyme,
With flavish obftinacy vex my brain
To reconcile them, but, alas! in vain.
Sometimes I fet my. wits upon the rack,
And, when I would fay white, the verse fays black
When I would draw a brave man to the life,
It names some slave that pimps to his own wife,
Or base poltroon, that would have sold his daughter,
If he had met with any to have bought her;
When I would praise an author, the untoward
Damn'd sense, says Virgil, but the rhyme
In fine, whate'er I strive to bring about,
The contrary (fpite of my heart) comes out.
Sometimes, enrag'd for time and pains mispent,
I give it over, tir'd, and discontent,
And, damning the dull fiend a thousand times,
By whom I was poffefs'd, forfwear all rhymes;
But, having curs'd the Mufes, they appear,
To be reveng'd for 't, ere I am aware.
Spite of myself, I ftrait take fire again,
Fall to my task with paper, ink, and pen,
And, breaking all the oaths I made, in vain,
From verfe to verfe expect their aid again.
But, if my Mufe or I were fo difcreet
T endure, for rhyme's fake, one dull epithet,.
I might, like others, eafily command
Words without study, ready and at hand.
In praising Chloris, moons, and stars, and skies,
Are quickly made to match her face and eyes -
And gold and rubies, with as little care,
To fit the colour of her lips and hair ;
And, mixing funs, and flowers, and pearl, and stones, Make them ferve all complexions at once.
Ver. 22.] Damn'd fenfe, fays Virgil, but the rhyme This blank, and another at the clole of the r'oem, the Author evidently chose should be fupplied by the reader. It is not my business, therefore, to deprive him . of that fatisfaction.
With thefe fine fancies, at hap-hazard writ,
I could make verfes without art or wit,
And, fhifting forty times the verb and noun,
With ftol'n impertinence patch up mine own:
But in the choice of words my fcrupulous wit
Is fearful to pafs one that is unfit ;
Nor can endure to fill up a void place,
At a line's end, with one infipid phrase ;
And, therefore, when I foribble twenty times,
When I have written four, I blot two rhymes.
May he be damn'd who first found out that curse, 55
T imprison and confine his thoughts in verse ;
To hang fo dull a clog upon his wit,
And make his reason to his rhyme submit!
Without this plague, I freely might have spent
My happy days with leifure and content;
Had nothing in the world to do or think,
Like a fat prieft, but whore, and eat, and drink ;
Had past my time as pleasantly away,
Slept all the night, and loiter'd all the day.
My foul, that's free from care, and fear, and hope, 63 Knows how to make her own ambition stoop,
T' avoid uneafy greatness and resort,
Or for preferment following the Court.
How happy had I been if, for a curse,
The Fates had never fentenc'd me to verfe!
But, ever fince this peremptory vein,
With reftlefs frenzy, first poffefs'd my brain,
And that the devil tempted me, in spite
Of my own happiness, to judge and write,
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