Four feet, you know, in ev'ry line
Is PRIOR'S measure, and is mine;
Yet Taste wou'd' ne'er forgive the crime
To talk of mine with PRIOR's rhyme.
Yet, take it on a Poet's word,
There are who foolishly have err'd,
And marr'd their proper reputation,
By sticking close to imitation.
A double rhyme is often sought
At strange expence of time and thought;
And tho' sometimes a lucky hit
May give a zest to BUTLER'S wit;
Whatever makes the measure halt
Is beauty seldom, oft a fault.
For when we see the wit and pains,
The twisting of the stubborn brains,
To cramp the sense within the bound
Of some queer double treble sound,
Hard is the Muse's travail, and 'tis plain.
'Tis pinion'd sense, and EASE in PAIN;
'Tis like a foot that's wrapt about
With flannel in the racking gout.
But here, methinks, 'tis more than time
To wave both simile and rhyme;
For while, as pen and Muses please,
I talk so much of ease and ease,
Tho' the words mention'd o'er and o'er, I scarce have thought of yours before.
"Tis true, when writing to one's friend, 'Tis a rare science when to end, As 'tis with wits a common sin
To want th' attention to begin.
So, Sir, (at last indeed) adieu,
Believe me, as you'll find me, true;
And if henceforth, at any time,
APOLLO whispers you in rhyme,
Or Lady Fancy should dispose
Your mind to sally out in prose,
I shall receive, with hallow'd awe,
The Muse's mail from FLEXNEY's draw.
You know, dear George, I'm none of those
That condescend to write in prose;
Inspir'd with pathos and sublime,
I always soar in doggrel rhyme,
And scarce can ask you how you do,
Without a jingling line or two.
Besides, I always took delight in
What bears the name of easy writing;
Perhaps the reason makes it please
Is, that I find it's writ with ease.
I vent a notion here in private,
Which public taste can ne'er connive at,
Which thinks no wit or judgment greater
Than Addison and his Spectator,
Who says (it is no matter where
But that he says it, I can swear)
With easy verse most Bards are smitten,
Because they think it's easy written;
The greater marks of care it wears ;
Of which, to give an explanation,
Take this by way of illustration:
The fam'd Mat Prior, it is said,
Oft bit his nails, and scratch'd his head,
And chang'd a thought a hundred times,
Because he did not like the rhymes.
To make my meaning clear, and please ye,
In short, he labour'd to write easy.
And yet, no critic e'er defines
His poems into labour'd lines.
I have a simile will hit him ;
His verse, like clothes, was made to fit him, Which (as no Taylor e'er denied)
The better fit, the more they're tried. Though I have mention'd Prior's name, Think not I aim at Prior's faine.
'Tis the result of admiration
To spend itself in imitation;
If imitation may be said,
Which is in me by nature bred,
And you have better proofs than these,
That I'm idolator of ease.
Who, but a madman, would engage A Poet in the present age ?.
Write what we will, our, works bespeak us
Imitatores, servum Pecus,
Tale, Elegy, or lofty Ode,
We travel in the beaten road.
The proverb still sticks closely by us,
Nil dictum, quod non dictum prius.
The only comfort that I know
Is, that 'twas said an age ago,
Ere Milton soar'd in thought sublime,
Ere Pope refin'd the chink of rhyme,.
Ere Colman wrote in stile so pure,
Or the great TWO the CONNOISSEUR;
Ere I burlesqu'd the rural cit,
Proud to hedge in my scraps of wit,
And happy in the close connexion,
T' acquire some name from their reflexion;
So (the similitude is trite).
The moon still shines with borrow'd light, And, like the race of modern beaux,
Ticks with the sun for her lac'd clothes.
Methinks there is no better time
To shew the use I make of rhyme,
Than now, when I, who from beginning
Was always fond of couplet sinning,
Presuming on good-nature's score,
Thus lay my bantling at your door.
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