Ye
Lords
and
Commons,
Men
of
Wit,
And
Pleasure
about
Town;
Read
this
ere
you
translate
one
Bit
Of
Books
of
high
Renown.
Beware
of
Latin
Authors
all!
Nor
think
your
Verses
Sterling,
Though
with
a
Golden
Pen
you
scrawl,
And
scribble
in
a
Berlin:
For
not
the
Desk
with
silver
Nails,
Nor
Bureau
of
Expense,
Nor
standish
well
japann'd
avails,
To
writing
of
good
Sense.
Hear
how
a
Ghost
in
dead
of
Night,
With
saucer
Eyes
of
Fire,
In
woeful
wise
did
sore
affright
A
Wit
and
courtly
'Squire.
Rare
Imp
and
Phoebus,
hopeful
Youth
Like
Puppy
tame
that
uses
To
fetch
and
carry,
in
his
Mouth,
The
Works
of
all
the
Muses.
Ah!
why
did
he
write
Poetry,
That
hereto
was
so
civil;
And
sell
his
soul
for
vanity,
To
Rhyming
and
the
Devil?
A
Desk
he
had
of
curious
Work,
With
glittering
Studs
about;
Within
the
same
did
Sandys
lurk,
Though
Ovid
lay
without.
Now
as
he
scratch'd
to
fetch
up
Thought,
Forth
popp'd
the
Sprite
so
thin;
And
from
the
Key-hole
bolted
out,
All
upright
as
a
Pin.
With
Whiskers,
Band,
and
Pantaloon,
And
Ruff
composed
most
duly;
This
'Squire
he
dropp'd
his
Pen
full
soon,
While
as
the
Light
burnt
bluely.
"Ho!
Master
Sam,"
quoth
Sandys'
sprite,
"Write
on,
nor
let
me
scare
ye;
Forsooth,
if
Rhymes
fall
in
not
right,
To
Budgell
seek,
or
Carey.
"I
hear
the
Beat
of
Jacob's
Drums,
Poor
Ovid
finds
no
Quarter!
See
first
the
merry
Pembroke
comes
In
Haste,
without
his
Garter.
"Then
Lords
and
Lordlings,
'Squires
and
Knights,
Wits,
Witlings,
Prigs
and
Peers!
Garth
at
St.
James's,
and
at
White's,
Beats
up
for
Volunteers.
"What
Fenton
will
not
do,
nor
Gay,
Nor
Congreve,
Rowe,
nor
Stanyan,
Tom
Burnet
or
Tom
D'Urfey
may,
John
Dunton,
Steele,
or
any
one.
"If
Justice
Philips'
costive
head
Some
frigid
Rhymes
disburses;
They
shall
like
Persian
Tales
be
read,
And
glad
both
Babes
and
Nurses.
"Let
Warwick's
Muse
with
Ashurst
join,
And
Ozell's
with
Lord
Hervey's:
Tickell
and
Addison
combine,
And
P—pe
translate
with
Jervas.
"Landsdowne
himself,
that
lively
Lord,
Who
bows
to
every
Lady,
Shall
join
with
Frowde
in
one
Accord,
And
be
like
Tate
and
Brady.
"Ye
Ladies
too
draw
forth
your
pen,
I
pray
where
can
the
hurt
lie?
Since
you
have
Brains
as
well
as
Men,
As
witness
Lady
Wortley.
"Now,
Tonson,
list
thy
Forces
all,
Review
them,
and
tell
Noses;
For
to
poor
Ovid
shall
befal
A
strange
Metamorphosis.
"A
Metamorphosis
more
strange
Than
all
his
Books
can
vapour;"
'To
what'
(quoth
'squire)
'shall
Ovid
change?'
Quoth
Sandys:
"To
waste
paper."
