Classic Poem

Let others who wou'd Helps to Fancy chuse,
Out of the Nine elect an aiding Muse;
Fortune, that's said but kind to Fools to be,
Invok'd shall be, to help weak Sense, by me;
Who still in Writing, as in Gaming too,
For Fancy's best Encourager may go;
To whose good Grace, and partial Favour will,
A strong Imagination help us still;
More than our Pains, Thought, Reason, Art, or Wit,
Which are the readiest Means to miss of it;
Ev'n Nature is but kind to Man in vain,
If Fortune's Aid his Fancy can't obtain:
Since no Man for a Man of Sense can go,
If he no Marks can of her Favour show;
Since Fortune's Gifts will more than Nature's do,
In making Men thought Witty, Just, nay Wife,
For Poor Men's Faith, Wit, Wisdom, all despise:
Then Fortune's the best Aid, and Proof of Wit;
Since Wise Men by Men's Money judge of it;
Nature's Gifts, without Fortune's, none will prize;
For let a Man be Valiant, Just, nay Wise,
Without he has with his Good Qualities,
(Against the Custom) some Good Fortune too,
His very Virtues shall for Vices go;
Instead of getting him the World's Esteem,
He shall be more Ridiculous for them:
His Love of Fame, be thought his Vanity;
His Daring Honour, Dread of Infamy;
Int'rest his Love, his Complaisance, his Fear;
Folly, his Truth, his Courage, his Despair;
His Justice, but his Fear of Punishment;
His Good Deed, not his Act, but Accident:
Then, Fortune! It is only but by you,
Nature's Endowments of more Value grow;
The Wise Man's Foresight, Sense, or Reason's none,
Who without thee, relies on them alone;
Whilst so successful still the Fools we see,
For their depending only but on Thee;
The Bold Man, to whom you go, for a Friend,
Fool-hardiness must find it in the End,
More on his Strength, than on you, to depend:
The Politician does a Coxcomb grow,
Against himself, is but a Plotter too;
Who most consults his Reason without you;
The Lover finds his Rhet'rick of no Pow'r,
Nor Gifts, if you lend not, the Happy Hour;
To me then let Apollo , and each Muse,
Their Aid (if you stand by me still) refuse.
None doubt the Happiness of that Man's Sense;
Whose good Deeds, good Thoughts, good Stars influence;
You give Experience too, the Test of Wit,
Wit is but Fancy, till you License it;
Wit without you, is sensless thought, or vain,
By you, the Man's undoing makes the Man;
Best Wit, bought Wit, Experience may he gain:
By you Mankind, the World, themselves may know;
Without which, the best Wits for Coxcombs go;
The Learn'd, and Wise, for sensless Blockheads too.
To me, thou Fortune! ev'n when bad, wert good,
By which, my self I've better understood;
And Man, whom (but for thee) I never shou'd;
But for your Jilting, and Incertainty,
My Mind had ne'r had, or shown Constancy;
And but for your Ill Usage still of me,
I ne'r had scap'd my being chous'd by thee;
So were you, like a Jilting Whore, more kind;
The sooner you your Falsness made me find;
Since, like all Jilts, but by your Fondness you,
Credulous Cullies still the more undo,
Undo the Man, whilst you the vain Fool make;
Since by your Gifts, our Sense you from us take,
As more your Gifts are, Nature's more to lack;
The more oblig'd then am I to you, so,
But as the less I am oblig'd to you,
Since as less favour'd, but less jilted too.
If Wit be better, as more dearly bought;
Ill Fortune, the best Muse sure, shou'd be thought,
By whom, both Wit and Judgment best is taught;
If Fools are made such, by Prosperity,
Wits must be made so, by the Contrary.