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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=431486" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Verses Addressed to the Imitator of the First Satire of the Second Book Of Horace</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">In two large columns on thy motley page <br>Where Roman wit is strip'd with English rage; <br>Where ribaldry to satire makes pretence, <br>And modern scandal rolls with ancient sense: <br>Whilst on one side we see how Horace thought, <br>And on the other how he never wrote; <br>Who can believe, who view the bad, the good, <br>That the dull copyist better understood <br>That spirit he pretends to imitate, <br>Than heretofore that Greek he did translate? <br>Thine is just such an image of his pen, <br>As thou thyself art of the sons of men, <br>Where our own species in burlesque we trace, <br>A sign-post likeness of the human race, <br>That is at once resemblance and disgrace. <br>Horace can laugh, is delicate, is clear, <br>You only coarsely rail, or darkly sneer; <br>His style is elegant, his diction pure, <br>Whilst none thy crabbed numbers can endure; <br>Hard as thy heart, and as thy birth obscure. <br>If he has thorns, they all on roses grow; <br>Thine like thistles, and mean brambles show; <br>With this exception, that, though rank the soil, <br>Weeds as they are, they seem produc'd by toil. <br>Satire should, like a polish'd razor, keen, <br>Wound with a touch, that's scarcely felt or seen: <br>Thine is an oyster-knife, that hacks and hews; <br>The rage, but not the talent to abuse; <br>And is in hate, what love is in the stews. <br>'Tis the gross lust of hate, that still annoys, <br>Without distinction, as gross love enjoys: <br>Neither to folly, nor to vice confin'd, <br>The object of thy spleen is humankind: <br>It preys on all who yield, or who resist: <br>To thee 'tis provocation to exist. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But if thou seest a great and generous heart, <br>Thy bow is doubly bent to force a dart. <br>Nor dignity nor innocence is spar'd, <br>Nor age, nor sex, nor thrones, nor graves, rever'd. <br>Nor only justice vainly we demand, <br>But even benefits can't rein thy hand; <br>To this or that alike in vain we trust, <br>Nor find thee less ungrateful than unjust. <br>Not even youth and beauty can control <br>The universal rancour of thy soul; <br>Charms that might soften superstition's rage, <br>Might humble pride, or thaw the ice of age. <br>But how should'st thou by beauty's force be mov'd, <br>No more for loving made than to be lov'd? <br>It was the equity of righteous Heav'n, <br>That such a soul to such a form was giv'n; <br>And shows the uniformity of fate, <br>That one so odious should be born to hate. <br>When God created thee, one would believe <br>He said the same as to the snake of Eve; <br>To human race antipathy declare, <br>'Twixt them and thee be everlasting war. <br>But oh! the sequel of the sentence dread, <br>And whilst you bruise their heel, beware your head. <br>Nor think thy weakness shall be thy defence, <br>The female scold's protection in offence. <br>Sure 'tis as fair to beat who cannot fight, <br>As 'tis to libel those who cannot write. <br>And if thou draw'st thy pen to aid the law, <br>Others a cudgel, or a rod, may draw. <br>If none with vengeance yet thy crimes pursue, <br>Or give thy manifold affronts their due; <br>If limbs unbroken, skin without a stain, <br>Unwhipt, unblanketed, unkick'd, unslain, <br>That wretched little carcase you retain, <br>The reason is, not that the world wants eyes, <br>But thou'rt so mean, they see, and they despise: <br>When fretful porcupine, with ranc'rous will, <br>From mounted back shoots forth a harmless quill, <br>Cool the spectators stand; and all the while <br>Upon the angry little monster smile. <br>Thus 'tis with thee: -- while impotently safe, <br>You strike unwounding, we unhurt can laugh. <br>Who but must laugh, this bully when he sees, <br>A puny insect shiv'ring at a breeze? <br>One over-match'd by every blast of wind, <br>Insulting and provoking all mankind. <br>Is this the thing to keep mankind in awe, <br>To make those tremble who escape the law? <br>Is this the ridicule to live so long, <br>The deathless satire and immortal song? <br>No: like the self-blown praise, thy scandal flies; <br>And, as we're told of wasps, it stings and dies. <br>If none do yet return th'intended blow, <br>You all your safety to your dulness owe: <br>But whilst that armour thy poor corse defends, <br>'Twill make thy readers few, as are thy friends: <br>Those, who thy nature loath'd, yet lov'd thy art, <br>Who lik'd thy head, and yet abhorr'd thy heart: <br>Chose thee to read, but never to converse, <br>And scorn'd in prose him whom they priz'd in verse <br>Ev'n they shall now their partial error see, <br>Shall shun thy writings like thy company; <br>And to thy books shall ope their eyes no more <br>Than to thy person they would do their door. <br>Nor thou the justice of the world disown, <br>That leaves thee thus an outcast and alone; <br>For though in law to murder be to kill, <br>In equity the murder's in the will: <br>Then whilst with coward-hand you stab a name, <br>And try at least t'assassinate our fame, <br>Like the first bold assassin's be thy lot, <br>Ne'er be thy guilt forgiven, or forgot; <br>But, as thou hat'st be hated by mankind, <br>And with the emblem of thy crooked mind <br>Mark'd on thy back, like Cain by God's own hand, <br>Wander, like him, accursed through the land.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Lady+Mary+Wortley+Montagu">Lady Mary Wortley Montagu</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=431486" data-title="Verses Addressed to the Imitator of the First Satire of the Second Book Of Horace de Lady Mary Wortley Montagu" data-description="In two large columns on thy motley page 
Where Roman wit is strip'd with English rage; 
Where ribaldry to satire makes pretence, 
And modern scandal rolls with ancient sense: 
Whilst on one side we see how Horace thought, 
And on the other how he ..."></div>
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