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I Pity, from my Soul, Unhappy men,
Compell'd by want to Prostitute their Pen;
Who must, like Lawyers, either Starve, or Plead,
And follow, right or wrong, where Guynys Lead;
But you, Pompilian wealthy, pamper'd Heirs,
Who to your Country owe your Swords, and Cares.
Let no vain hope your easie mind seduce,
For Rich Ill Poets are without Excuse.
'Tis very Dangerous, Tampring with a Muse,
The Profit's small, and you have much to lose;
For, tho true Wit adorns your Birth, or Place,
Degenerate lines degrade th' attainted Race.
No Poet any Passion can Excite;
But what they feel transport them when they write.
Have you been led through the Cumæan Cave.
And heard th' Impatient Maid Divinely Rave?
Compell'd by want to Prostitute their Pen;
Who must, like Lawyers, either Starve, or Plead,
And follow, right or wrong, where Guynys Lead;
But you, Pompilian wealthy, pamper'd Heirs,
Who to your Country owe your Swords, and Cares.
Let no vain hope your easie mind seduce,
For Rich Ill Poets are without Excuse.
'Tis very Dangerous, Tampring with a Muse,
The Profit's small, and you have much to lose;
For, tho true Wit adorns your Birth, or Place,
Degenerate lines degrade th' attainted Race.
No Poet any Passion can Excite;
But what they feel transport them when they write.
Have you been led through the Cumæan Cave.
And heard th' Impatient Maid Divinely Rave?
I
