Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AN EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE PAUL METHUEN, ESQ., by JOHN GAY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AN EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE PAUL METHUEN, ESQ., by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: That, 'tis encouragement makes science spread
Last Line: To shoot at crows is powder flung away.
Subject(s): Poetry & Poets


THAT, 'tis encouragement makes Science spread,
Is rarely practis'd, though 'tis often said;
When learning droops and sickens in the land,
What Patron's found to lend a saving hand?
True gen'rous Spirits prosp'rous vice detest,
And love to cherish vertue when distrest:
But e'er our mighty Lords this scheme pursue,
Our mighty Lords must think and act like you.
Why must we climb the Alpine mountain's sides
To find the seat where Harmony resides?
Why touch we not so soft the silver lute,
The cheerful haut-boy, and the mellow flute?
'Tis not th' Italian clime improves the sound,
But there the Patrons of her sons are found.
Why flourish'd verse in great Augustus' reign?
He and Mecoenas lov'd the Muse's strain.
But now that wight in poverty must mourn
Who was (O cruel stars!) a Poet born.
Yet there are ways for authors to be great;
Write ranc'rous libels to reform the State:
Or if you chuse more sure and ready ways,
Spatter a Minister with fulsome praise:
Launch out with freedom, flatter him enough;
Fear not, all men are dedication-proof.
Be bolder yet, you must go farther still,
Dip deep in gall thy mercenary quill.
He who his pen in party quarrels draws,
Lists an hir'd bravo to support the cause;
He must indulge his Patron's hate and spleen,
And stab the fame of those he ne'er has seen.
Why then should authors mourn their desp'rate case?
Be brave, do this, and then demand a place.
Why art thou poor? exert the gifts to rise,
And banish tim'rous vertue from thy eyes.
All this seems modern preface, where we're told
That wit is prais'd, but hungry lives and cold:
Against th' ungrateful age these authors roar,
And fancy learning starves because they're poor.
Yet why should learning hope success at Court?
Why should our Patriots vertue's cause support?
Why to true merit should they have regard?
They know that vertue is its own reward.
Yet let not me of grievances complain,
Who (though the meanest of the Muse's train)
Can boast subscriptions to my humble lays,
And mingle profit with my little praise.
Ask Painting, why she loves Hesperian air.
Go view, she crys, my glorious labours there;
There in rich palaces I reign in state,
And on the temple's lofty domes create.
The Nobles view my works with knowing eyes,
They love the science, and the painter prize.
Why didst thou, Kent, forgo thy native land,
To emulate in picture Raphael's hand?
Think'st thou for this to raise thy name at home?
Go back, adorn the palaces of Rome;
There on the walls let thy just labours shine,
And Raphael live again in thy design.
Yet stay awhile; call all thy genius forth,
For Burlington unbyass'd knows thy worth;
His judgment in thy master-strokes can trace
Titian's strong fire and Guido's softer grace;
But, oh consider, e'er thy works appear,
Canst thou unhurt the tongue of envy hear?
Censure will blame, her breath was ever spent
To blast the laurels of the Eminent.
While Burlington's proportion'd columns rise,
Does not he stand the gaze of envious eyes?
Doors, windows are condemn'd by passing fools,
Who know not that they damn Palladio's rules.
If Chandois with a lib'ral hand bestow,
Censure imputes it all to pomp and show;
When, if the motive right were understood,
His daily pleasure is in doing good.
Had Pope with groveling numbers fill'd his page,
Dennis had never kindled into rage.
'Tis the sublime that hurts the Critic's ease;
Write nonsense and he reads and sleeps in peace.
Were Prior, Congreve, Swift and Pope unknown,
Poor slander-selling Curll would be undone.
He who would free from malice pass his days,
Must live obscure, and never merit praise.
But let this tale to valiant virtue tell
The daily perils of deserving well.
A crow was strutting o'er the stubbled plain,
Just as a lark descending closed his strain.
The crow bespoke him thus with solemn grace,
Thou most accomplish'd of the feather'd race,
What force of lungs! how clear! how sweet you sing!
And no bird soars upon a stronger wing.
The lark, who scorn'd soft flatt'ry, thus replys,
True, I sing sweet, and on strong pinion rise;
Yet let me pass my life from envy free,
For what advantage are these gifts to me?
My song confines me to the wiry cage,
My flight provokes the faulcon's fatal rage.
But as you pass, I hear the fowlers say,
To shoot at crows is powder flung away.





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