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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=448956" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Poems to Mulgrave and Scroope</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Deare Friend. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I heare this Towne does soe abound, <br>With sawcy Censurers, that faults are found, <br>With what of late wee (in Poetique Rage) <br>Bestowing, threw away on the dull Age; <br>But (howsoe're Envy, their Spleen may raise, <br>To Robb my Brow, of the deserved Bays) <br>Their thanks at least I merit since through me, <br>They are Partakers of your Poetry; <br>And this is all, I'll say in my defence, <br>T'obtaine one Line, of your well worded Sense </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'd be content t'have writ the Brittish Prince. <br>I'm none of those who thinke themselves inspir'd, <br>Nor write with the vaine hopes to be admir'd; <br>But from a Rule (I have upon long tryall) <br>T'avoyd with care, all sort of self denyall. <br>Which way soe're desire and fancy leade <br>(Contemning Fame) that Path I boldly tread; <br>And if exposeing what I take for Witt, <br>To my deare self, a Pleasure I beget, <br>Noe matter tho' the Censring Crittique fret. <br>Those whom my Muse displeases, are at strife <br>With equall Spleene, against my Course of life, <br>The least delight of which, I'd not forgoe, <br>For all the flatt'ring Praise, Man can bestow. <br>If I designd to please the way were then, <br>To mend my Manners, rather than my Pen; <br>The first's unnaturall, therefore unfit, <br>And for the Second, I despair of it, <br>Since Grace, is not soe hard to get as Witt. <br>Perhaps ill Verses, ought to be confin'd, <br>In meere good Breeding, like unsav'ry Wind; <br>Were Reading forc'd, I shou'd be apt to thinke <br>Men might noe more write scurvily, than stinke: <br>But 'tis your choyce, whether you'll Read, or noe, <br>If likewise of your smelling it were soe, <br>I'd Fart just as I write, for my owne ease, <br>Nor shou'd you be concern'd, unlesse you please: <br>I'll owne, that you write better than I doe, <br>But I have as much need to write, as you. <br>What though the Excrement of my dull Braine,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Runns in a harsh, insipid Straine, <br>Whilst your rich Head, eases it self of Witt? <br>Must none but Civet-Catts, have leave to shit? <br>In all I write, shou'd Sense, and Witt, and Rhyme <br>Faile me at once, yet something soe Sublime, <br>Shall stamp my Poem, that the World may see, <br>It cou'd have beene produc'd, by none but me. <br>And that's my end, for Man, can wish noe more, <br>Then soe to write, as none ere writ before. <br>Yet why am I noe Poet, of the tymes? <br>I have Allusions, Similies and Rhymes, <br>And Witt, or else 'tis hard that I alone, <br>Of the whole Race of Mankind, shou'd have none. <br>Unequally, the Partiall Hand of Heav'n, <br>Has all but this one only Blessing giv'n; <br>The World appeares like a great Family, <br>Whose Lord opprest with Pride, and Poverty, <br>(That to a few, great Plenty he may show) <br>Is faine to starve the Num'rous Traine below: <br>Just soe seemes Providence, as poor and vaine, <br>Keeping more Creatures, than it can maintaine. <br>Here 'tis profuse, and there it meanly saves, <br>And for One Prince, it makes Ten Thousand Slaves: <br>In Witt alone, it has beene Magnificent, <br>Of which, soe just a share, to each is sent <br>That the most Avaricious are content. <br>For none e're thought, (the due Division's such), <br>His owne too little, or his Friends too much. <br>Yet most Men shew, or find great want of Witt, <br>Writeing themselves, or Judging what is writ: <br>But I, who am of sprightly Vigour full <br>Looke on Mankind, as Envious, and dull. <br>Borne to my self, my self I like alone, <br>And must conclude my Judgment good, or none. <br>(For shou'd my Sense be nought, how cou'd I know, <br>Whether another Man's, were good, or noe?) <br>Thus, I resolve of my owne Poetry, <br>That 'tis the best, and there's a Fame for me. <br>If then I'm happy, what does it advance, <br>Whether to merit due, or Arrogance?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh! but the World will take offence thereby, <br>Why then the World, shall suffer for't, not I. <br>Did e're this sawcy World, and I agree? <br>To let it have its Beastly will on me? <br>Why shou'd my Prostituted Sense, be drawne, <br>To ev'ry Rule, their musty Customes spawne? <br>But Men, will Censure you; Tis Two to one <br>When e're they Censure, they'll be in the wrong. <br>There's not a thing on Earth, that I can name <br>Soe foolish, and soe false, as Common Fame. <br>It calls the Courtier Knave, the plaine Man rude, <br>Haughty the grave, and the delightfull Lewd. <br>Impertinent the briske, Morosse the sad, <br>Meane the Familiar, the Reserv'd one Mad. <br>Poor helplesse Woman, is not favour'd more <br>She's a slye Hipocryte, or Publique Whore. <br>Then who the Devill, wou'd give this -- to be free <br>From th'Innocent Reproach of Infamy? <br>These things consider'd, make me (in despight <br>Of idle Rumour,) keepe at home, and write.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Lord+John+Wilmot">Lord John Wilmot</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=448956" data-title="Poems to Mulgrave and Scroope de Lord John Wilmot" data-description="Deare Friend. 

I heare this Towne does soe abound, 
With sawcy Censurers, that faults are found, 
With what of late wee (in Poetique Rage) 
Bestowing, threw away on the dull Age; 
But (howsoe're Envy, their Spleen may raise, 
To Robb my Brow, of ..."></div>
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