Poems on several occasions by the right honourable the E. of R-

An Epistolary Essay from M. G. to O. B. upon their Mutual Poems.

Dear Friend,

I Hear this Town does so abound With sawcy Censurcrs, that faults are found Which what of late we (in Poetique rage) Bestowing, threw away on the dull Age; But (howsoe're Envy, their spleens may raise, To Rob my Brows of the deserved Bays) Their thanks at least I merit, since through me, They are partakers of your Poetry: And this is all I'le say in my defence, T' obtain one Line of your well-worded sense, I'd be content t' have writ the Brittish Prince. I'm none of those who think themselves inspir'd; Nor write with the vain hope to be admir'd; But from a Rule I have (upon long tryal) T' avoid with care all sort of self denyal. Which way so'ere 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 tho the cens'ring Criticks fret. These whom my Muse displeases, are at strife, With equal spleen against my course of life, The least delight of which, I'll not forgo, For all the flatt'ring praise, Man can bestow.

If I design'd 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 confin'd In meer good breeding like unsav'ry Wind: Were reading forc'd, I shou'd 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 shou'd you be concern'd unless you please, I'll own, that you write better than I do, But I have as much need to write as you. What tho the Excrements of my dull Brain, Flows in a harsh insipid strain; Whilst your rich head, eases it self of Wit. Must none but Civit Cats have leave to shit? In all I write, shou'd Sense, and Wit, and Rhyme, Fail me at once, yet something so sublime, Shall stamp my Poem, that the World may see, It cou'd have been produc'd by none but me; And that's my end, for Man can wish no more, Than so to write, as none e're writ before. Yet why am I no Poet of the times? I have Allusions, Similies, and Rhymes, And Wit, or else 'tis hard that I alone, Of the whole Race of Mankind shou'd have none. Unequally the partial hand of Heav'n, Has all but this one only blessing giv'n.

The World appears like a great Family, Whose Lord opprest with Pride and Poverty. (That to a few great bounty he may show) Is fain to starve the num'rous Train below. Just so seems Providence, as poor, and vain, Keeping more Creatures than it can maintain. Here 'tis profuse, and there it mainly saves, And for one Prince, it makes ten thousand Slaves. In Wit, alone't has been Magnificent, Of which so just a share to each is sent, That the most Avaricious are content. For none e're thought (the due divisions such) His own too little, or his Friends too much. Yet most Men shew, or find great want of Wit Writing themselves, or judging what is writ. But I, who am of sprightly vigour full, Look on Mankind, as envious and dull, Born to my self, my self I like alone, And must conclude my judgment good, or none. For cou'd my sense be naught, how shou'd I know, Whether another Mans were good or no? Thus I resolve of my own Poetry, That 'tis the best, and there's a Fame for me. If then I'm happy, what does it advance, Whither to merit due, or Arrogance? Oh! but the World will take offence hereby, Why then the World shall suffer for't, not I. Did e're the sawcy World, and I agree To let it have its beastly will on me? Why shou'd my prostituted sense be drawn, To ev'ry Rule their musty Customes spawn?

But Men, will censure you, 'tis two to one, When e're 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 lew'd. Impertinent the brisk, Moross the sad, Mean the familiar, the reserv'd one mad. Poor helpless Woman, is not favour'd more, She's a sly Hypocrite, or publick Whore. Then who the Devil, wou'd give this—to be free From th' innocent reproach of infamy. These things consider'd, make me (in despight Of idle Rumour) keep at home and write.