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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=530176" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Satyr I. A Letter To A Friend. On Poets.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Poets are bound by ye severest rules,<br>the great ones must be mad, ye little all are fools,<br>thus wn. I rime 'tis at my own expence,<br>to please my friend, I drop my claim to sence.<br>but now ye greater sway wch custome bears,<br>to forfeit souls in oaths, or sence in verse?<br>the using of an ill has so much power,<br>stamp it a fashion, & its ill no more.<br>since then ye humour so extremely reigns,<br>that ye gay folly every brest unbends,<br>let me beneath ye common shadow hide<br>the fault's not mine thats all ye worlds beside.<br>say then if passion, discontent, or ease<br>sho'd e're your friend wth poetry possess, <br>for these, and want, ye muses setters seeme,<br>to draw in cullies to their loosing game,<br>how may I know yepath I ought to tread,<br>for 'tis in all mens natures to succeed<br>some one way more than any else beside.<br>fancy the reigning planet of yer. mind<br>guides poets, & like her they're unconfin'd;<br>a bounded genius will attempt to prove,<br>the stings of satyr, & ye flames of love,<br>Jear folly, virtue by example praise,<br>& move our passions & or. language raise<br>happy one way but one he'l scorn to chuse<br>so much or. wilder hopes our parts abuse.<br>Durfy more luckily employs his quill<br>weak as he is he knows his talent still.<br>Wn C---r taught how plays debaucht ye age<br>he left to V---ke to defend the stage,<br>in rufull ballad humbly pleas'd to rage.<br>how great & undisturb'd by censuring foes<br>might eithers fame beneath thier wreaths repose<br>had B---l nere written verse nor C---ve prose.<br>B---r in Epicks may be still inspir'd,<br>by men of sence approv'd by all ye rest admir'd<br>let him of Williams thickned lawrells sing<br>while for himself from every page they spring<br>& that shall crowne ye poet wch adorns ye King<br>but nere to tread in scandalls rougher ways<br>again depart ye peacefull realms of praise.<br>we read his satyr & his wit allow,<br>we read & own the blended malice too.<br>but oft his muse shows an unpointed tooth<br>Wn. a just turn of verse don't raise ye illnaturd truth<br>low puns for wit his lines do often fill<br>& oft he rambles in too loose a stile;<br>the biting satyr fights in closer file.<br>laborious T---te has many methods try'd,<br>to know wt. happy way he may succeed,<br>A play or two employ'd his hopes at first,<br>far from ye best, a little from ye worst,<br>then bits of foreign poets to or. tongue,<br>more happily he brought, more sweetly sung,<br>flush'd with success, he rises up from hence,<br>to rescue David at his own expence. <br>so have I known some painters wn. a face<br>in spight of all their touches wants to please<br>turn up its eys & alter all its dress<br>the auction piece a flowing glory wears,<br>& where the syren fail'd; ye saint appears.<br>Now I, who proudly authors thus arraign,<br>am, may be, envious thought, & may be vain,<br>but if my lines can gain one friends esteem,<br>or my diversion be, 'tis all my aim,<br>I never bid perhaps nere shall for fame.<br>Nay sho'd I find my censures too severe,<br>Ide in my changing prove my temper fair,<br>and see with joy an error disappear;<br>let Dennis rules for writing well lay downe,<br>believe wt he prescribes his play has done,<br>a preface write to shew he dos not faile,<br>Till Hypers to himself ye fop reveale.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Parnell">Thomas Parnell</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=530176" data-title="Satyr I. A Letter To A Friend. On Poets. de Thomas Parnell" data-description="Poets are bound by ye severest rules,
the great ones must be mad, ye little all are fools,
thus wn. I rime 'tis at my own expence,
to please my friend, I drop my claim to sence.
but now ye greater sway wch custome bears,
to forfeit souls in oaths,..."></div>
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