Carolyn Wells - A Satire Anthology стр 11.

SHUT, shut the door, good John! fatigued I said;
Tie up the knocker; say Im sick, Im dead.
The dog-star rages! nay, tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out;
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide.
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the church is free;
Evn Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me;
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy to catch me just at dinner-time.
Is there a parson much bemusd in beer,
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,
A clerk foredoomd his fathers soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza when he should engross?
Is there, who, lockd from ink and paper, scrawls
With desperate charcoal round his darkend walls?
All fly to Twitnam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damnd works the cause;
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,
And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.
Friend to my life (which did you not prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song),
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a fools wrath or love?
A dire dilemma either way Im sped;
If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Seizd and tyd down to judge, how wretched I,
Who cant be silent, and who will not lie.
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace;
And to be grave, exceeds all power of face.
I sit with sad civility; I read
With honest anguish, and an aching head,
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel, Keep your piece nine years.
Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury Lane,
Lulld by soft zephyrs through the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends,
Obligd by hunger, and request of friends:
The piece, you think, is incorrect? Why take it;
Im all submission; what youd have it, make it.
Three things anothers modest wishes bound,
My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.
Pitholeon sends to me: You know his grace.
I want a patron: ask him for a place.
Pitholeon libelld me. But heres a letter
Informs you, sir, twas when he knew no better.
Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine;
Hell write a journal, or hell turn divine.
Bless me! a packet. Tis a stranger sues,
A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse.
If I dislike it, Juries, death, and rage!
If I approve, Commend it to the stage.
There (thank my stars!), my whole commission ends;
The players and I are luckily no friends.
Fird that the house reject him, Sdeath! Ill print it,
And shame the fools. Your interest, sir, with Lintot.
Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much.
Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch.
All my demurs but double his attacks;
At last he whispers, Do, and we go snacks.
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door:
Sir, let me see your works and you no more!

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand,
One took the other briskly by the hand;
Hark-ye, said he, tis an odd story, this,
About the crows! I dont know what it is,
Replied his friend. No! Im surprised at that;
Where I came from it is the common chat;
But you shall hear an odd affair indeed!
And that it happened, they are all agreed.
Not to detain you from a thing so strange,
A gentleman, that lives not far from Change,
This week, in short, as all the alley knows,
Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows.
Impossible! Nay, but its really true;
I have it from good hands, and so may you.
From whose, I pray? So, having named the man,
Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran.
Sir, did you tell relating the affair.
Yes, sir, I did; and, if its worth your care,
Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me.
But, by the bye, twas two black crows not three.
Resolved to trace so wondrous an event,
Whip, to the third, the virtuoso went;
Sir and so forth. Why, yes; the thing is fact,
Though, in regard to number, not exact;
It was not two black crows twas only one;
The truth of that you may depend upon;
The gentleman himself told me the case.
Where may I find him? Why, in such a place.
Away goes he, and, having found him out,
Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt.
Then to his last informant he referred,
And begged to know if true what he had heard.
Did you, sir, throw up a black crow? Not I.
Bless me! how people propagate a lie!
Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one;
And here, I find, all comes, at last, to none.
Did you say nothing of a crow at all?
Crow crow perhaps I might, now I recall
The matter over. And pray, sir, what wast?
Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last,
I did throw up, and told my neighbor so,
Something that was as black, sir, as a crow.

A  lovely young lady I mourn in my rhymes;
She was pleasant, good-natured, and civil (sometimes);
Her figure was good; she had very fine eyes,
And her talk was a mixture of foolish and wise.
Her adorers were many, and one of them said
She waltzed rather well its a pity shes dead.

WHILE at the helm of State you ride,
Our nations envy, and its pride;
While foreign courts with wonder gaze,
And curse those counsels that they praise;
Would you not wonder, sir, to view
Your bard a greater man than you?
Which that he is, you cannot doubt,
When you have read the sequel out.

You know, great sir, that ancient fellows,
Philosophers, and such folks, tell us,
No great analogy between
Greatness and happiness is seen.
If, then, as it might follow straight,
Wretched to be, is to be great,
Forbid it, gods, that you should try
What tis to be so great as I!

The family that dines the latest
Is in our street esteemd the greatest;
But latest hours must surely fall
Fore him who never dines at all.
Your taste in architect, you know,
Hath been admired by friend and foe;
But can your earthly domes compare
With all my castles in the air?
Were often taught, it doth behove us
To think those greater whore above us;
Another instance of my glory,
Who live above you, twice two story,
And from my garret can look down
On the whole street of Arlington.

Greatness by poets still is painted
With many followers acquainted;
This, too, doth in my favour speak;
Your levée is but twice a week;
From mine I can exclude but one day
My door is quiet on a Sunday.

Nor in the manner of attendance
Doth your great bard claim less ascendance;
Familiar, you to admiration
May be approached by all the nation;
While I, like the Mogul in Indo,
Am never seen but at my window.
If with my greatness youre offended,
The fault is easily amended;
For Ill come down, with wondrous ease,
Into whatever place you please.
Im not ambitious; little matters
Will serve us, great but humble creatures.

Suppose a secretary o this isle,
Just to be doing with a while;
Admiral, general, judge, or bishop
Or I can foreign treaties dish up.
If the good genius of the nation
Should call me to negotiation,
Tuscan and French are in my head;
Latin I write, and Greek I read.
If you should ask, What pleases best?
To get the most, and do the least.
What fittest for? You know, Im sure:
Im fittest for a sinecure.