An Epistle to a Friend ("I cannot yet, say what you will")

I cannot yet, say what you will,
Lay by the d—n'd mischievous quill;
I cannot for my soul refuse,
The invitation of my muse,
The restless jade will every day,
Throw some strange subject in my way.
And I, as restless as herself,
Can't throw it wisely on the shelf,;
I cannot pass a villain o'er,
Or see the suff'rings of the poor;
Nor can I at a blockhead wink,
But out I blunder what I think.
In hopes to make some reformation,
Amongst the jockies of the nation,
Who trick us some how every day,
Or steal some privilege away.—
When half-bred critics come to mind,
The pest of genius and mankind,
Whose pockets seldom hold a groat,
Whose merit lies, in finding fault.
A needy prostituted tribe,
Who damns, or praises, for a bribe;
Forsa'en of Genius and the Muse,
Fell Envy teaches 'm abuse;
From foul malignancy of spirit,
They turn a jealous eye to merit,
In secret stab her ev'ry hour,
Whene'er they have it in their power.
Like coward thieves in ambush fight,
Or rush upon you in the night:
For while they wound unknown, unseen,
They're sure you cannot fight again.
With these, and what I daily meet,
In the newspapers and the street,
My Muse, as mutt'ring in my breast,
Won't let me have a moment's rest,
But flutters, struggles, pants, and pines,
Until the peevish hussy finds,
I'm fir'd with an inclination,
To give a vent to ev'ry passion.
I oft would pester you with rhime,
But greedy care won't give me time,
For when a thought has come to mind,
Or when I've found the muse as kind
As I cou'd wish, I've sat me down,
And rhimes have on the paper grown,
Uninterrupted for a while,
In a pure unlabour'd stile;
But oft the business of the day,
Drives my willing Muse away.
Each infant thought distracted dies,
And fancy thro' the window flies.