Epistle IX. To a Lady destring the Copy of a Song

Madam,

You are a Poetess 'tis true,
Nor had we men been Poets but for you;
'Tis from your sex we've learnt our art and wit;
'Tis for your sakes that we do practice it.
Your subtler sex first ventred on the tree,
Where knowledg grew, and pluck'd the fruit which we
Did only tast, and that at second hand,
Yet by that hand, and taste we're all trepn'd;
And our posterity the doom endures;
You op'd our eyes, as you know who did yours:
By your command this Song thus rudely pen'd,
To you I do commit, though not commend;
To shew what duty I'm arriv'd unto,
You cannot sooner bid, then I can do:
Nor can your active soul command and sway,
With more delight and pride, then mine obey.
I will not say this Poem's bad or good,
'Tis as 'tis lik'd, and as 'tis understood.
A Poem's life, and death dependeth still
Not on the Poets wit, but Readers will:
Should it in sence seem rascal, low and dull,
Your eye can make it sprightly, plump, and full:
And if it should be lame, I hope 'twill be,
('Cause somewhat like your self) more pleasing t'ye:
If it should trip, assist it with your hand,
You may lend feet, for you can make things stand.
One touch of yours can cure its ev'l, and then
'Tis made by your fair hand, not my blunt pen,
Useful for love, or slighting you'l it find;
For love before, or for disdain behind:
Be't as you please, to more it can't aspire;
'Tis all it can deserve, or I desire.