For, so the Rhime be at the Verse's End,
No matter whither all the rest do tend.
Unhappy is that Man, who, spite of 's Heart,
Is forc'd to be ty'd up to Rules of Art.
A Fop that scribbles, does it with Delight,
Takes no Pains to consider, what to write;
But, fond of all the Nonsense he brings forth,
Is ravish'd with his own great Wit and Worth.
While brave and noble Writers vainly strive
To such a height of Glory to arrive:
But still with all they do unsatisfy'd,
Ne'er please themselves, though all the World beside.
And those, whom all Mankind admire for Wit,
With for their own Sakes, they had never writ,
Thou then, that see'st how ill I spend my Time,
Teach me for Pity, how to make a Rhime;
And in th' Instructions chance to prove in vain,
Teach how ne'er to write again.
The Genuine Remains in Verse and Prose, Samuel Butler (Author of Hudibras), London, J. R. Tonson, 1759 pp90. (Satyr)
One must remain that Mr. Butler died in most abject poverty. The following epitaph was writ on his tombstone by Mr. Samuel Wesley:
While Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive,
No generous patron would a dinner give;
See him, when starv'd to death, and turn?d to dust,
Presented with a monumental bust.
The poet's fate is here in emblem shown,
He ask'd for bread, and he received a stone.
****
Joe Wortham's Home Page, About Joe Wortham, Directory of Web Pages
Questions? Comments? [email protected]