Classic and Contemporary Poetry
AN EPISTOLARY ESSAY FROM M.G. TO O.B. UPON MUTUAL POEMS, by JOHN WILMOT Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Dear friend, / I hear this town does so abound Last Line: Of idle rumor, keep at home and write. Alternate Author Name(s): Rochester, 2d Earl Of Subject(s): Dryden, John (1631-1700); Sheffield, John (1648-1721); Buckingham & Normandy, 1st Duke Of; Mulgrave, 3d Earl Of | ||||||||
Dear friend, I hear this town does so abound With saucy censurers, that faults are found With what of late we, in poetic rage Bestowing, threw away on the dull age. But howsoe'er envy their spleen may raise To rob my brow of the deserved bays, Their thanks at least I merit, since through me They are partakers of your poetry. And this is all I'll say in my defence: T' obtain one line of your well-worded sense, I'd be content t' have writ the British Prince. I'm none of those who think themselves inspired, Nor write with the vain hopes to be admired, But from a rule I have upon long trial: T' avoid with care all sort of self-denial. Which way soe'er desire and fancy lead, Contemning fame, that path I boldly tread. And if, exposing what I take for wit, To my dear self a pleasure I beget, No matter though the censuring critic fret. Those whom my muse displeases are at strife With equal spleen against my course of life, The least delight of which I'd not forgo For all the flattering praise man can bestow. If I designed to please, the way were then To mend my manners rather than my pen. The first's unnatural, therefore unfit, And for the second, I despair of it, Since grace is not so hard to get as wit. Perhaps ill verses ought to be confined In mere good breeding, like unsavory wind. Were reading forced, I should be apt to think Men might no more write scurvily than stink. But 'tis your choice whether you'll read or no; If likewise of your smelling it were so, I'd fart, just as I write, for my own ease, Nor should you be concerned unless you please. I'll own that you write better than I do, But I have as much need to write as you. What though the excrement of my dull brain Runs in a costive and insipid strain, Whilst your rich head eases itself of wit: Must none but civet cats have leave to shit? In all I write, should sense and wit and rhyme Fail me at once, yet something so sublime Shall stamp my poem, that the world may see It could have been produced by none but me. And that's my end, for man can wish no more Than so to write, as none e'er writ before. But why am I no poet of the times? I have allusions, similes, and rhymes, And wit -- or else 'tis hard that I alone Of the whole race of mankind should have none. Unequally the partial hand of heaven Has all but this one only blessing given. The world appears like a large family Whose lord, oppressed with pride and poverty, That to a few great plenty he may show, Is fain to starve the numerous train below: Just so seems Providence, as poor and vain, Keeping more creatures than it can maintain; Here 'tis profuse, and there it meanly saves, And for one prince it makes ten thousand slaves. In wit alone 't has been munificent, Of which so just a share to each is sent That the most avaricious is content: Who ever thought -- the due division's such -- His own too little, or his friend's too much? Yet most men show, or find great want of wit, Writing themselves, or judging what is writ. But I, who am of sprightly vigor full, Look on mankind as envious and dull. Born to myself, myself I like alone And must conclude my judgment good, or none. For should my sense be nought, how could I know Whether another man's be good or no? Thus I resolve of my own poetry That 'tis the best, and that's a fame for me. If then I'm happy, what does it advance Whether to merit due, or arrogance? "Oh! but the world will take offense thereby." Why then, the world will suffer for 't, not I. Did e'er this saucy world and I agree To let it have its beastly will of me? Why should my prostituted sense be drawn To every rule their musty customs spawn? "But men will censure you." 'Tis ten to one Whene'er they censure, they'll be in the wrong. There's not a thing on earth that I can name So foolish and so false as common fame. It calls the courtier knave, the plain man rude, Haughty the grave, and the delightful lewd, Impertinent the brisk, morose the sad, Mean the familiar, the reserved one mad. Poor helpless woman is not favored more: She's a sly hypocrite, or public whore. Then who the devil would give this to be free From th' innocent reproach of infamy? These things considered make me, in despite Of idle rumor, keep at home and write. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A VERY HEROICAL EPISTLE IN ANSWER TO EPHELIA by JOHN WILMOT MY LORD ALL-PRIDE by JOHN WILMOT A SATIRE [OR, SATYR] AGAINST MANKIND by JOHN WILMOT A SONG OF A YOUNG LADY TO HER ANCIENT LOVER by JOHN WILMOT EPITAPH ON CHARLES II by JOHN WILMOT GRECIAN KINDNESS: A SONG by JOHN WILMOT IMPROMPTU ON CHARLES II (2) by JOHN WILMOT |
|