THE times are swoll'n so big with nicer wits, That nought sounds good but what Opinion strikes Censure with Judgment seld together sits; And now the man more than the matter likes. The great rewardress of a poet's pen, Fame, is by those so clogg'd she seldom flies; The Muses sitting on the graves of men, Singing that Virtue lives and never dies, Are chas'd away by the malignant tongues Of such, by whom Detraction is ador'd: Hence grows the want of ever-living songs, With which our isle was whilom bravely stor'd. If such a basilisk dart down his eye (Impoison'd with the dregs of utmost hate), To kill the first blooms of my poesy, It is his worst, and makes me fortunate. Kind wits I vail to, but to fools precise I am as confident as they are nice. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LONDON CHURCHES by RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES PROTHALAMION by EDMUND SPENSER LETTY'S GLOBE by CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER HUDSON RIVER ANTHOLOGY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS DESERT by PATRICK JOHN MCALISTER ANDERSON BROADWAY IN THE OZARKS: NIGHT by BETTY CORBETT BASSETT PARADOX by MAGDELEN EDEN BOYLE |