Epistle VII. An Epistle from a Friend to the Author upbraiding him with his writing Songs

Dear friend, believ'e my love has spurr'd me on,
For once to question thy discretion:
And by right reason deify'd by thee,
I blame thee for the wrongs to Poesie
Thou hast committed; in betraying it
To th' censure (not the judgment) of each wit;
Wit, did I say? things whose dull spirits are
Apt only to applaud, what e'r they hear,
Be't good or bad, so throated to their mind,
Johnson and Taylor like acceptance find.

Why pedler'st thus thy muse? Why dost set ope
A shop of wit, to set the fidlers up?
Fie prodigal, canst statuated shine,
By the abuse of Women, praise of Wine?
Or such like toyes, which every hour are
By every pen spu'd forth int' every ear.

Thy comely Muse dress up in robes, and raise
Majestick splendour to thy wreath of bayes:
Don't prostitute her thus, her Majesty,
(Like that of Princes) when the vulgar see
Too frequently, respect and awe are fled,
Contempt and scorn remaineth in their stead:
But I have done, and fear I've done amiss,
Being doubtful, lest thou't give thy Fidlers this.
I. B.