Poetical recreations consisting of original poems, songs, odes, &c. with several new translations : in two parts
Barker, Jane.
Page  62

TO THE SECRETARY OF THE MUSES. A NEW-YEARS-GIFT.

IULIAN,
WIth care peruse the lines I send,
Which when you've done, you'll find I am your friend;
I write not for Applause, or if I doe,
Who'd value the Applause that comes from you,
Or from your Patrons, who of late we see,
However they're distinguish'd in degree,
Forget themselves, and grow as dull as thee?
As often drunk, as awkward in their dress,
Fight with thy courage, Court with thy success.
And when their fond Impertinences fail,
They strait turn Satyrists, and learn to rail;
Page  63With false Aspersions whitest truths they touch,
And will abuse, because they can't debauch.
No, Iulian, 'tis not my design to glean
Applauses either from thy self, or them;
But meerly to assume a friendly care,
And give thee Counsel for th' ensuing Year.
For if all pow'rfull dullness keep its station,
Dullness chief Manufacture of the Nation,
Thou certainly must starve the next Vacation.
To prevent which, observe the rules I give,
We never are too old to learn to live.
First then, to all thy railing Scriblers go,
Who do their wit and worth in Libels show;
Bid 'em correct their Manners, and their Style,
For both of 'em begin to grow so vile,
They are beneath a Carr-man's scornfull smile:
Tell 'em their false Coyn will no longer pass;
Nay, tell 'em that thou know'st it to be Brass:
But above all, beg 'em to mend their strain,
And yet I fear thy pray'rs will be in vain;
For though the Old year, Iulian, now is done,
We know there comes another rowling on,
And still another too when that is gone.
Page  64But Wit lyes unmanur'd, the barren stor
Is ebbing out—I fear 'twill flow no more.
'Tis well thou dost not live on Wit alone,
For the dull trash the Men of Sence disown,
Thy duller Coxcombs with Applauses crown.
Since folly then, and nonsence find success,
Let this dull trifle pass amongst the rest:
But swear withall the Author is a Wit;
Nay, when thou'rt in th' Enthusiastick fit,
Swear 'tis the highest thing that e'er was writ.
Thus with thy noise prepare 'em by degrees,
Thou'rt us'd to dullness, and thou know'st 'twill please,
Dull then as 'tis, this New-years-gift of mine,
If manag'd well, may help to get thee thine.