Classic Poem

AN APOLOGY FOR THE FOREGOING OBE, BY WAY OF EPILOGUE

My Part is done, and you'l (I hope) excuse
Th' Extravagance of a repenting Muse;
Pardon whatere she has too boldly said,
She only acted here in Masquerade;
And the slight Arguments, she did produce,
Were not to Flatter Vice, but to Traduce;
So we Buffoons in Princely Dress expose
Not to be Gay, but more Ridiculous:
When she a Hector for her Subject had,
She thought she must be Termagant and mad;
That made her speak like a lewd Punk o'th' Town,
Who, by Converse with Bullies wicked grown,
Has learnt the Mode to cry all Vertue down;
But now the Vizard's off, she changes Scene,
And turns a modest civil Girle agen.
Our Poet has a diff'rent Tast of Wit,
Now will to th' common Vogue himself submit;
Let some admire the Fops, those Talents ly
In venting dull insipid Blasphemy;
He swears he cannot with those terms dispence,
Nor will be damn'd for the Repute of Sence:
Wit's Name was never to Profaness due,
For then you see he could be witty too:
He cou'd lampoon the State and libel Kings,
But that he's Loyal and knows better things,
Then Fame, whose guilty Birth from Treason springs.
He likes not Wit, which can't a Licence claim,
To which the Author dares not set his Name;
Wit should be open, court each Reader's Ey.,
Not lurk in sly unprinted Privacy;
But Criminal Writers, like dull Birds of Night,
For Weakness, or for Shame avoid the Light;
May such a Jury for their Audience have,
And from the Bench, not Pit, their Doom receive.
May they the Tow'r for their due merit share,
And a just Wreath of Hemp, for Laurel, wear.
He could be Bawdy too, and nick the Times
In what they dearly love, damn'd Placket-Rhimes,
Such as our Nobles write, —
Whose nauseous Poetry can reach no higher,
Then what the Codpiece and its God inspire;
So lewd, they spend at Quill, you'd justly think,
They wrote with something nastier then Ink:
But he still thought that little Wit, or none,
Which a just Modesty must never own,
And the meer Reader with a blush attone:
If Ribaldry deserv'd the Praise of Wit,
He must resign to each Illiterate Cit,
And Prentices and Carmen challenge it;
Ev'n they too can be smart and Witty there
For all Men on that Subject Poets are:
Henceforth, he says, if ever more he find
Himself to the base Itch of Verse inclin'd,
If e're he's given up so far to write,
He never means to make his End Delight;
Should he do so, he must despair Success,
For he's not now debaucht enough to Please,
And must be damn'd for want of Wickedness;
He'l therefore use his Gift another Way,
And next the Ugliness of Vice display;
Tho against Vertue once he drew his Pen,
He'll ne'er for ought, but her Defence agen:
Had he a Genius and Poetique Rage,
Great as the Vices of this guilty Age;
Were he all Gall, and arm'd with store of Spite,
'Twere worth his Pains to undertake to write;
To noble Satyr he'd direct his Aim,
And by't, Mankind and Poetry reclaim;
He'd shoot his Quills, just like a Porcupine,
At Vice, and make 'em stab in ev'ry Line:
The World should learn to blush, —
And dread the Vengeance of his pointed Wit,
Which worse then their own Consciences should fright,
And all should think him Heav'ns just Plague, design'd
To Visit for the Sins of lewd Mankind.