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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=381287" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To The Right Hon. Mr. Dodington</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Long, Dodington, in debt, I long have sought<br>To ease the burden of my graceful thought:<br>And now a poet's gratitude you see:<br>Grant him two favours, and he'll ask for three:<br>For whose the present glory, or the gain?<br>You give protection, I a worthless strain.<br>You love and feel the poet's sacred flame,<br>And know the basis of a solid fame;<br>Though prone to like, yet cautious to commend,<br>You read with all the malice of a friend;<br>Nor favour my attempts that way alone,<br>But, more to raise my verse, conceal your own.<br>An ill-tim'd modesty! turn ages o'er,<br>When wanted Britain bright examples more?<br>Her learning, and her genius too, decays;<br>And dark and cold are her declining days;<br>As if men now were of another cast,<br>They meanly live on alms of ages past,<br>Men still are men; and they who boldly dare,<br>Shall triumph o'er the sons of cold despair;<br>Or, if they fail, they justly still take place<br>Of such who run in debt for their disgrace;<br>Who borrow much, then fairly make it known,<br>And damn it with improvements of their own.<br>We bring some new materials, and what's old<br>New cast with care, and in no borrow'd mould;<br>Late times the verse may read, if these refuse;<br>And from sour critics vindicate the Muse.<br>'Your work is long', the critics cry. 'Tis true,<br>And lengthens still, to take in fools like you:<br>Shorten my labour, if its length you blame:<br>For, grow but wise, you rob me of my game;<br>As haunted hags, who, while the dogs pursue,<br>Renounce their four legs, and start up on two.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Like the bold bird upon the banks of Nile<br>That picks the teeth of the dire crocodile,<br>Will I enjoy (dread feast!) the critic's rage,<br>And with the fell destroyer feed my page.<br>For what ambitious fools are more to blame,<br>Than those who thunder in the critic's name?<br>Good authors damn'd, have their revenge in this,<br>To see what wretches gain the praise they miss.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Balbutius, muffled in his sable cloak,<br>Like an old Druid from his hollow oak,<br>As ravens solemn, and as boding, cries,<br>'Ten thousand worlds for the three unities!'<br>Ye doctors sage, who through Parnassus teach,<br>Or quit the tub, or practise what you preach.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">One judges as the weather dictates; right<br>The poem is at noon, and wrong at night:<br>Another judges by a surer gage,<br>An author's principles, or parentage;<br>Since his great ancestors in Flanders fell,<br>The poem doubtless must be written well.<br>Another judges by the writer's look;<br>Another judges, for he bought the book:<br>Some judge, their knack of judging wrong to keep;<br>Some judge, because it is too soon to sleep.<br>Thus all will judge, and with one single aim,<br>To gain themselves, not give the writer, fame.<br>The very best ambitiously advise,<br>Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait,<br>Proclaim the glory, and augment the state;<br>Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry<br>Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die.<br>Rail on, my friends! what more my verse can crown<br>Than Compton's smile, and your obliging frown?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not all on books their criticism waste:<br>The genius of a dish some justly taste,<br>And eat their way to fame; with anxious thought<br>The salmon is refus'd, the turbot bought.<br>Impatient art rebukes the sun's delay<br>And bids December yield the fruits of May;<br>Their various cares in one great point combine<br>The business of their lives, that is--to dine.<br>Half of their precious day they give the feast;<br>And to a kind digestion spare the rest.<br>Apicius, here, the taster of the town,<br>Feeds twice a week, to settle their renown.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">These worthies of the palate guard with care<br>The sacred annals of their bills of fare;<br>In those choice books their panegyrics read,<br>And scorn the creatures that for hunger feed.<br>If man by feeding well commences great,<br>Much more the worm to whom that man is meat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To glory some advance a lying claim,<br>Thieves of renown, and pilferers of fame:<br>Their front supplies what their ambition lacks;<br>They know a thousand lords, behind their backs.<br>Cottil is apt to wink upon a peer,<br>When turn'd away, with a familiar leer;<br>And Harvey's eyes, unmercifully keen,<br>Have murdered fops, by whom she ne'er was seen.<br>Niger adopts stray libels; wisely prone,<br>To cover shame still greater than his own.<br>Bathyllus, in the winter of threescore,<br>Belies his innocence, and keeps a ----.<br>Absence of mind Brabantio turns to fame,<br>Learns to mistake, nor knows his brother's name;<br>Has words and thoughts in nice disorder set,<br>And takes a memorandum to forget.<br>Thus vain, not knowing what adorns or blots<br>Men forge the patents that create them sots.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As love of pleasure into pain betrays,<br>So most grow infamous through love of praise.<br>But whence for praise can such an ardour rise,<br>When those, who bring that incense, we despise?<br>For such the vanity of great and small,<br>Contempt goes round, and all men laugh at all.<br>Nor can even satire blame them; for 'tis true,<br>They have most ample cause for what they do<br>O fruitful Britain! doubtless thou wast meant<br>A nurse of fools, to stock the continent.<br>Though Phoebus and the Nine for ever mow,<br>Rank folly underneath the scythe will grow<br>The plenteous harvest calls me forward still,<br>Till I surpass in length my lawyer's bill;<br>A Welsh descent, which well-paid heralds damn;<br>Or, longer still, a Dutchman's epigram.<br>When, cloy'd, in fury I throw down my pen,<br>In comes a coxcomb, and I write again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">See Tityrus, with merriment possest,<br>Is burst with laughter, ere he hears the jest:<br>What need he stay? for when the jest is o'er,<br>His teeth will be no whiter than before.<br>Is there of thee, ye fair! so great a dearth,<br>That you need purchase monkeys for your mirth!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some, vain of paintings, bid the world admire;<br>Of houses some; nay, houses that they hire:<br>Some (perfect wisdom!) of a beauteous wife;<br>And boast, like Cordeliers, a scourge for life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sometimes, through pride, the sexes change their airs;<br>My lord has vapours, and my lady swears;<br>Then, stranger still! on turning of the wind,<br>My lord wears breeches, and my lady's kind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To show the strength, and infamy of pride,<br>By all 'tis follow'd, and by all denied.<br>What numbers are there, which at once pursue,<br>Praise, and the glory to contemn it, too?<br>Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shame,<br>And therefore lays a stratagem for fame;<br>Makes his approach in modesty's disguise,<br>To win applause; and takes it by surprise.<br>'To err,' says he, 'in small things, is my fate.'<br>You know your answer, 'he's exact in great'.<br>'My style', says he, 'is rude and full of faults.'<br>'But oh! what sense! what energy of thoughts!'<br>That he wants algebra, he must confess;<br>'But not a soul to give our arms success'.<br>'Ah! that's an hit indeed,' Vincenna cries;<br>'But who in heat of blood was ever wise?<br>I own 'twas wrong, when thousands called me back<br>To make that hopeless, ill-advised attack;<br>All say, 'twas madness; nor dare I deny;<br>Sure never fool so well deserved to die.'<br>Could this deceive in others to be free,<br>It ne'er, Vincenna, could deceive in thee!<br>Whose conduct is a comment to thy tongue,<br>So clear, the dullest cannot take thee wrong.<br>Thou on one sleeve wilt thy revenues wear;<br>And haunt the court, without a prospect there.<br>Are these expedients for renown? Confess<br>Thy little self, that I may scorn thee less.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Be wise, Vincenna, and the court forsake;<br>Our fortunes there, nor thou, nor I, shall make.<br>Even men of merit, ere their point they gain,<br>In hardy service make a long campaign;<br>Most manfully besiege the patron's gate,<br>And oft repulsed, as oft attack the great<br>With painful art, and application warm.<br>And take, at last, some little place by storm;<br>Enough to keep two shoes on Sunday clean,<br>And starve upon discreetly, in Sheer-Lane.<br>Already this thy fortune can afford;<br>Then starve without the favour of my lord.<br>'Tis true, great fortunes some great men confer,<br>But often, even in doing right, they err:<br>From caprice, not from choice, their favours come:<br>They give, but think it toil to know to whom:<br>The man that's nearest, yawning, they advance:<br>'Tis inhumanity to bless by chance.<br>If merit sues, and greatness is so loth<br>To break its downy trance, I pity both.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Behold the masquerade's fantastic scene!<br>The Legislature join'd with Drury-Lane!<br>When Britain calls, th' embroider'd patriots run,<br>And serve their country--if the dance is done.<br>'Are we not then allow'd to be polite?'<br>Yes, doubtless; but first set your notions right.<br>Worth, of politeness is the needful ground;<br>Where that is wanting, this can ne'er be found.<br>Triflers not even in trifles can excel;<br>'Tis solid bodies only polish well.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Great, chosen prophet! for these latter days,<br>To turn a willing world from righteous ways!<br>Well, Heydegger, dost thou thy master serve;<br>Well has he seen his servant should not starve,<br>Thou to his name hast splendid temples raised<br>In various forms of worship seen him prais'd,<br>Gaudy devotion, like a Roman, shown,<br>And sung sweet anthems in a tongue unknown.<br>Inferior offerings to thy god of vice<br>Are duly paid, in fiddles, cards, and dice;<br>Thy sacrifice supreme, an hundred maids!<br>That solemn rite of midnight masquerades!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Though bold these truths, thou, Muse, with truths like these,<br>Wilt none offend, whom 'tis a praise to please;<br>Let others flatter to be flatter'd, thou<br>Like just tribunals, bend an awful brow.<br>How terrible it were to common-sense,<br>To write a satire, which gave none offence!<br>And, since from life I take the draughts you see.<br>If men dislike them, do they censure me?<br>The fool, and knave, 'tis glorious to offend,<br>And Godlike an attempt the world to mend,<br>The world, where lucky throws to blockheads fall,<br>Knaves know the game, and honest men pay all.<br>How hard for real worth to gain its price!<br>A man shall make his fortune in a trice,<br>If blest with pliant, though but slender, sense,<br>Feign'd modesty, and real impudence:<br>A supple knee, smooth tongue, an easy grace.<br>A curse within, a smile upon his face;<br>A beauteous sister, or convenient wife,<br>Are prizes in the lottery of life;<br>Genius and Virtue they will soon defeat,<br>And lodge you in the bosom of the great.<br>To merit, is but to provide a pain<br>For men's refusing what you ought to gain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">May, Dodington, this maxim fail in you,<br>Whom my presaging thoughts already view<br>By Walpole's conduct fired, and friendship grac'd,<br>Still higher in your Prince's favour plac'd:<br>And lending, here, those awful councils aid,<br>Which you, abroad, with such success obey'd!<br>Bear this from one, who holds your friendship dear;<br>What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Edward+Young">Edward Young</a><div class=q>
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To ease the burden of my graceful thought:
And now a poet's gratitude you see:
Grant him two favours, and he'll ask for three:
For whose the present glory, or the gain?
You give protection, I a worthles..."></div>
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