An Epistolary Essay from M. G. to O. B. upon their Mutual Poems

Dear Friend,

I hear this Town does so abound
With saucy Censurers, that Faults are found
With what of late we (in poetick Rage)
Bestowing threw away on the dull Age.
But (howsoe'er Envy their Spleens may raise,
To rob my Brows of the deserved Bays)
Their Thanks at least I merit; since thro' me
They are Partakers of your Poetry:
And this is all I'll say in my Defence,
T'obtain one Line of your well-worded Sence,
I'll be content t'have writ the British Prince.
I'm none of those who think themselves inspir'd
Nor write with the vain Hope to be admir'd;
But from a Rule I have (upon long Trial)
T'avoid with Care all sort of Self-denial.
Which way soe'er Desire and Fancy lead,
(Contemning Fame) that Path I boldly tread;
And if exposing what I take for Wit,
To my dear self a Pleasure I beget,
No Matter tho' the cens'ring Criticks fret.
These whom my Muse displeases are at Strife,
With equal Spleen against my Course of Life,
The least Delight of which I'll not forego,
For all the flatt'ring Praise Man can bestow.
If I design'd to please, the Way were then
To mend my Manners, rather than my Pen:
The first's unnatural, therefore unfit;
And for the second, I despair of it,
Since Grace is not so hard to get as Wit.
Perhaps ill Verses ought to be confin'd
In meer good Breeding, like unsav'ry Wind,
Were reading forc'd, I shou'd be apt to think,
Men might no more write scurvily than stink:
But 'tis your Choice, whether you'll read, or no.
If likewise of your Smelling it were so,
I'd fart just as I write, for my own Ease,
Nor shou'd you be concern'd unless you please.
I'll own that you write better than I do,
But I have as much need to write as you.
What tho' the Excrements of my dull Brain,
Flows in a harsh and an insipid Strain;
While your rich Head eases it self of Wit,
Must none but Civet Cats have leave to shit?
In all I write, shou'd Sense, and Wit, and Rhime
Fail me at once, yet something so sublime,
Shall stamp my Poem, that the World may see,
It cou'd have been produc'd by none but me.
And that's my End; for Man can wish no more
Than so to write, as none e'er writ before.
Yet why am I no Poet of the Times?
I have Allusions, Similes, and Rhimes,
And Wit; or else 'tis hard that I alone,
Of the whole Race of Mankind shou'd have none.
Unequally the partial Hand of Heav'n,
Has all but this one only Blessing giv'n.
The World appears like a great Family,
Whose Lord, oppress'd with Pride and Poverty,
(That to a few great Bounty he may show)
Is fain to starve the num'rous Train below:
Just so seems Providence, as poor and vain,
Keeping more Creatures than it can maintain:
Here 'tis profuse, and there it meanly saves,
And for one Prince it makes ten thousand Slaves.
In Wit, alone, 't has been Magnificent,
Of which so just a Share to each is sent,
That the most avaricious are content.
For none e'er thought (the due Division's such)
His own too little, or his Friends too much.
Yet most Men shew, or find, great want of Wit,
Writing themselves, or judging what is writ.
But I who am of sprightly Vigour full,
Look on Mankind, as envious, and dull.
Born to my self, I like my self alone;
And must conclude my Judgment good, or none:
For cou'd my Sense be naught, how shou'd I know
Whether another Man's were good or no,
Thus I resolve of my own Poetry,
That 'tis the best; and there's a Fame for me.
If then I'm happy, what does it advance
Whether to Merit due, or Arrogance?
Oh! but the World will take Offence hereby:
Why then the World shall suffer for't, not I.
Did e'er this saucy World and I agree,
To let it have its beastly Will on me?
Why shou'd my prostituted Sense be drawn,
To ev'ry Rule their musty Customs spawn?
But Men may censure you, 'tis two to one
Whene'er they censure they'll be in the wrong.
There's not a thing on Earth, that I can name,
So foolish, and so false, as common Fame:
It calls the Courtier Knave; the plain Man rude;
Haughty the Grave; and the Delightful lewd;
Impertinent the Brisk; morose the Sad;
Mean the Familiar; the Reserv'd one mad.
Poor helpless Woman, is not favour'd more,
She's a sly Hypocrite, or publick Whore.
Then who the Dev'l wou'd give this to be free
From th' innocent Reproach of Infamy.
These Things consider'd, make me, in despite
Of idle Rumour, keep at home and write.