Classic Poem

ODE XX

1

What mad men are wee, of the versing trade?
To give our witt
To Everie Censure? And noe doubt
A Thousand, to the Common Eye has Strayed
Ere one has hit;
And us the workmen, fooles, they flout.

2

An Epicke is too grave; a Satire Sharpe.
Sonnet is Light;
Elegie Dull; in Epigram
Wee want our Salt; and Ignorance will carpe,
Although we write
A Region, beyond All they claime.

3

Yet Silly men are wee; and here I should
Desist, from all
My Exercise of witt; if sure
I knew an able Judge to read, that could
But Errors call
Which Errors were, and know whats pure.

4

I durst not put my witt, unto the Test
Of such a Man;
I find a guilt, with my owne Eyes,
A partiall Father; yet not soe possest
Of my owne braine
But I can see Deformities;

5

Perhaps a fault, where the good Reader huggs
My verie Name;
And let him Joy, in all he found;
Where I am proud of witt, perhaps he Shruggs,
And Sighes, tis Lame;
Soe 'twer, if I to him were bound.

6

But let me give Advice: doe not pretend
To judge of witt;
It is an Emmett in a Cloud;
And you have but dimme Eyes: my honest freind.
If wee Submitt,
Your Sence may make this Ant, a Toade.

7

Then will I not sitt downe, with this Rebuke;
But once againe
Joy, with the Muses; innocent
In my designe; adventuring to looke
In noe mans braine
For witt, beyond his Argument.