Answer To Some Elegant Verses Sent By A Friend To The Author, Complaining That One Of His Descriptio
'But
if
any
old
lady,
knight,
priest
or
physician
Should
condemn
me
for
printing
a
second
edition;
If
good
Madam
Squintum
my
work
should
abuse,
May
I
venture
to
give
her
a
smack
of
my
muse?'~New
Bath
Guide.
CANDOUR
compels
me,
BECHER!
to
commend
The
verse
which
blends
the
censor
with
the
friend.
Your
strong
yet
just
reproof
extorts
applause
From
me,
the
heedless
and
imprudent
cause.
For
this
wild
error
which
pervades
my
strain,
I
sue
for
pardon,
—
must
I
sue
In
vain?
The
wise
sometlrnes
ftom
Wisdom's
ways
depart:
Can
youth
then
hush
the
dlctates
of
the
heart?
Precepts
of
prudence
curb,
but
can't
control
The
fierce
emotions
of
the
flowing
soul.
When
Love's
delirium
haunts
the
glowing
mind
Limping
Decorum
lingers
far
behind:
Vainly
the
dotard
mends
her
prudish
pace,
Outstript
and
vanquish'd
In
the
mental
chase.
The
young,
the
old,
have
worn
the
chains
of
love;
Let
those
they
ne'er
confined
my
lay
reprove:
Let
those
whose
souls
Conternn
the
pleasing
power
Their
censures
on
the
hapless
victim
shower.
Oh!
how
I
hate
the
nerveless,
frigid
song,
The
ceaseless
echo
of
the
rhyming
throng,
Whose
labour'd
lines
In
chilling
numbers
flow,
To
paint
a
pang
the
author
ne'er
can
know!
The
artless
Helicon
I
boast
is
youth;—
My
lyre,
the
heart;
my
muse,
the
simple
truth.
Far
be
't
from
me
the
'vlrgin's
stand'
to
'taint':
Seduction's
dread
is
here
no
slight
restraint.
The
maid
whose
virgin
breast
is
void
of
guile,
Whose
wishes
dimple
in
a
modest
smile,
Whose
downcast
eye
disdains
the
wanton
leer,
Firzn
in
her
virtue's
strength,
yet
not
severe
She
whom
a
conscious
grace
shall
thus
refine
Will
ne'er
be
'tainted'
by
a
strain
of
mine.
But
for
the
nymph
whose
premature
desires
Torment
her
bosom
with
unholy
fires,
No
net
to
snare
her
willing
heart
is
spread
Sho
would
have
fallen,
though
she
ne'er
had
read.
For
me,
I
fain
would
please
the
chosen
few,
Whose
souls,
to
feeling
and
to
nature
true,
Will
spare
the
childish
verse,
and
not
destroy
The
light
effusions
of
a
heedless
boy.
I
seek
not
glory
from
the
senseless
crowd;
Of
fancied
laurels
I
shall
ne'er
he
proud;
Their
warrnest
plaudits
I
would
scarcely
prize,
Their
sneers
or
censures
I
alike
despise.
