To the Memory of Mr John Oldham

But that 'tis dangerous for Man to be
Too busie with Immutable Decree,
I cou'd, dear Friend, have blam'd thy cruel doom,
That lent so much to be requir'd so soon!
The Flowers with which the Meads are drest so gay,
Short-liv'd though they are, yet they live a day;
Thou in the Noon of Life wer't snatch'd away!
Though not before thy Verse had wonders shown,
And bravely made the Age to come thy own!
The Company of Beauty, Wealth and Wine,
Were not so charming, not so sweet as thine;
They quickly perish, yours was still the same,
An everlasting, but a Lambent Flame,
Which something so resistless did impart,
It still through every Ear won every Heart;
Unlike the Wretch that strives to get esteem,
And thinks it fine and janty to Blaspheme,
And can be witty on no other Theme.
Ah foolish Men! (whom thou did'st still despise)
That must be wicked to be counted wise!
But thy Converse was from this error free,
And yet 'twas every thing true Wit can be,
None had it but, ev'n with a Tear, does own,
The Soul of Dear Society is gone!
But while we thus thy Native sweetness sing
We ought not to forget thy Native sting:
Thy Satyr spar'd no Follies nor no Crimes;
Satyr the best Reformer of the Times.
While diff'rent Priests eternally contest,
And each will have his own Religion best,
And in a holy huff damns all the rest,
Their Love to Gain, not Godliness is shown;
Heav'ns work is left undone to do their own.
How wide shoot they that strive to blast thy Fame
By saying that thy Verse was rough and lame?
They wou'd have Satyr their Compassion move,
And writ so pliant, nicely and so smooth,
As if the Muse were in a flux of Love:
But who of Knaves, and Fops, and Fools wou'd sing,
Must Force and Fire, and Indignation bring;
For 'tis no Satyr if it has no sting:
In short, who in that Field wou'd famous be,
Must think and write like Iuvenal and Thee.
Let others boast of all the mighty nine,
To make their Labours with more lustre shine:
I never had no other Muse but thee,
Ev'n thou wer't all the mighty nine to me:
'Twas thy dear Friendship did my Breast inspire,
And warm'd it first with a Poetick Fire,
But 'tis a warmth that does with thee expire;
For when the Sun is set that guides the day,
The Traveller must stop, or lose his way.