Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LESSER EPISTLES: TO MY INGENIOUS AND WORTHY FRIEND W- L-, by JOHN GAY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LESSER EPISTLES: TO MY INGENIOUS AND WORTHY FRIEND W- L-, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: When poets print their works, the scribbling crew
Last Line: When once they're rais'd, they're cursed hard to lay.
Subject(s): Critics & Criticism; Lowndes, William Thomas (1798-1843); Poetry & Poets


(Author of that celebrated treatise in folio,
called the LAND-TAX BILL)


WHEN Poets print their works, the scribbling crew
Stick the Bard o'er with Bays, like Christmas pew:
Can meagre Poetry such fame deserve?
Can Poetry; that only writes to starve?
And shall no laurel deck that famous head,
In which the Senate's annual law is bred?
That hoary head, which greater glory fires,
By nobler ways and means true fame acquires.
O had I Virgil's force to sing the man,
Whose learned lines can millions raise per ann.
Great L -- his praise should swell the trump of fame,
And Rapes and Wapentakes resound his name.
If the blind Poet gain'd a long renown
By singing ev'ry Grecian chief and town;
Sure L -- his prose much greater fame requires,
Which sweetly counts five thousand Knights and Squires,
Their seats, their citys, parishes and shires.
Thy copious Preamble so smoothly runs
Taxes no more appear like legal duns,
Lords, Knights, and Squires th' Assessor's power obey,
We read with pleasure, though with pain we pay.
Ah why did C -- thy works defame!
That author's long harangue betrays his name;
After his speeches can his pen succeed?
Though forc'd to hear, we're not oblig'd to read.
Under what science shall thy works be read?
All know thou wert not Poet born and bred;
Or dost thou boast th' Historian's lasting pen,
Whose annals are the Acts of worthy men?
No. Satyr is thy talent; and each lash
Makes the rich Miser tremble o'er his cash;
What on the Drunkard can be more severe,
Than direful taxes on his ale and beer?
Ev'n Button's Wits are nought compar'd to thee,
Who ne'er were known or prais'd but o'er his Tea,
While Thou through Britain's distant isle shalt spread,
In ev'ry Hundred and Division read.
Criticks in Classicks oft' interpolate,
But ev'ry word of thine is fix'd as Fate.
Some works come forth at morn, but die at night
In blazing fringes round a tallow light,
Some may perhaps to a whole week extend,
Like S -- (when unassisted by a friend,)
But thou shalt live a year in spite of fate:
And where's your author boasts a longer date?
Poets of old had such a wondrous power,
That with their verses they could raise a tower;
But in thy Prose a greater force is found;
What Poet ever rais'd ten thousand pound?
Cadmus, by sowing dragon's teeth, we read,
Rais'd a vast army from the poys'nous seed.
Thy labours, L -- , can greater wonders do,
Thou raisest armys, and canst pay them too.
Truce with thy dreaded pen; thy Annals cease;
Why need we armys when the land's in peace?
Soldiers are pefect devils in their way,
When once they're rais'd, they're cursed hard to lay.





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