HY like a tyrant wilt thou reign,
When thou may'ft rule the willing mind?
Can the poor pride of giving pain
Repay the joys that wait the kind?
I curfe my fond enduring heart,
Which fcorn'd prefumes not to be free,
Condemn'd to feel a double fmart,
To hate myself, and burn for thee.
EPIGRAM XVI.
VER bufy'd, ne'er employ'd,
Ever loving, ne'er enjoy'd,
Ever doom'd to feek and mifs,
And pay unbless'd the price of blifs.
EPIGRAM XVII.
AINLY hath heaven denounc'd the woman's woes,
Thou know'st no tender cares, no bitter throes,
Unfelt your offspring comes, unfelt it goes.
The DANGER of Writing VERSE.
An EPISTLE.
First printed in the Year 1741.
By WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, Efq;
Qua poterant unquam fatis expurgare cicute,
Ni melius dormire putem, quam fcribere verfus ?
OU afk me, fir, why thus by phantoms aw'd,
No kind occafion tempts the Muse abroad?
Why, when retirement fooths this idle art,
To fame regardless sleeps the youthful heart ?
"Twou'd wrong your judgment, fhou'd I fairly fay
Diftruft or weakness caus'd the cold delay;
Hint the small diff'rence, till we touch the lyre,
'Twixt real genius and too strong defire ;
The human flips, or feeming flips pretend,
That rouse the critick, but escape the friend;
Nay which, tho' dreadful when the foe pursues,
You pass, and smile, and still provoke the Muse.
Yet, fpite of all you think, or kindly feign,
My hand will tremble while it grasps the pen.
For not in this, like other arts, we try
Our light excurfions in a summer sky,
No cafual flights the dang'rous trade admits,
But wits once authors, are for ever wits.
The fool in profe, like earth's unwieldy fon,
May oft rife vig'rous, tho' he's oft o'erthrown;
One dang'rous crisis marks our rise or fall,
By all we're courted, or we're fhunn'd by all.
Will it avail, that unmatur'd by years,
My easy numbers pleas'd your partial ears,
If now condemn'd, my riper lays must bear
The wife man's cenfure, and the vain man's fneer?
Or, still more hard, ev'n where he's valu'd most,
The man must suffer, if the poet's loft;
For wanting wit, be totally undone,
And barr'd all arts, for having fail'd in one.
When fears like these his ferious thoughts engage,
No bugbear phantom curbs the poet's rage;
'Tis pow'rful reafon holds the ftreighten'd rein,
While flutt'ring fancy to the distant plain
Sends a long look, and spreads her wings in vain.
But grant, for once, th' officious Muse has shed
Her gentlest influence on his infant head.
Let fears lie vanquish'd, and refounding Fame
Give to the bellowing blast the poet's name.
And fee! diftinguish'd from the crowd he moves,
Each finger marks him, and each eye approves!
Secure, as halcyons brooding o'er the deep,
The waves roll gently, and the thunders sleep,
Obfequious nature binds the tempeft's wings,
And pleas'd attention liftens whilft he fings!
O blissful ftate! O more than human joy!
What shafts can reach him, or what eares annoy ?
What cares, my friend? why all that man can know,
Opprefs'd with real, or with fancy'd woe.
Rude to the world, like earth's first lord expell'd,
To climes unknown, from Eden's fafer field;
No more eternal springs around him breathe,
Black air fcowls o'er him, deadly damps beneath;
Now must he learn, mifguided youth, to bear
Each varying season of the poet's year:
Flatt'ry's full beam, detraction's wintry flore,
The frowns of fortune, or the pride of pow'r.
His acts, his words, his thoughts no more his own,
Each folly blazon'd, and each frailty known.
Is he referv'd?-his fenfe is fo refin'd
It ne'er defcends to trifle with mankind.
Open and free?-they find the fecret caufe
Is vanity; He courts the world's applause.
Nay, tho' he speak not, fomething still is feen,
Each change of face betrays a fault within.
If grave, 'tis fpleen; he fmiles but to deride;
And downright aukwardness in him is pride.
Thus must he fteer thro' fame's uncertain feas,
Now funk by cenfure, and now puff'd by praise;
Contempt with envy ftrangely mix'd endure,
Fear'd where carefs'd, and jealous tho' fecure.
One fatal rock on which good authors split
Is thinking all mankind must like their wit;
And the grand business of the world stand still
To liften to the dictates of their quill.
Hurt if they fail, and yet how few fucceed;
What's born in leisure men of leisure read;
And half of those have fome peculiar whim
Their teft of sense, and read but to condemn.
Befides, on parties now our fame depends,
And frowns or smiles, as these are foes or friends.
Wit, judgment, nature join; you strive in vain ;
'Tis keen invective stamps the current strain,
Fix'd to one fide, like Homer's gods, we fight,
These always wrong, and thofe for ever right.
And would you chufe to fee your friend, refign'd
Each conscious tie which guides the virtuous mind,
Embroil'd in factions, hurl with dreadful skill
The random vengeance of his defp'rate quill?
'Gainst pride in man with equal pride declaim,
And hide ill nature under virtue's name?
Or, deeply vers'd in flattery's wily ways,
Flow in full reams of undistinguish'd praise ?
To vice's grave, or folly's bust bequeath
The blushing trophy, and indignant wreath?
a Like Ægypt's priests, bid endless temples rife,
And people with earth's pests th' offended skies?
a Qui nefcit qualia demens
Ægyptus portenta colat? crocodilon adorat.
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