Classic Poem

When Pleasure's falling to the low Delight,
In the vain Joys of the uncertain Sight,
No Sense of Wit when rude Spectators know,
But in distorted Gesture, Farce and Show,
How could, great Author, your aspiring Mind
Dare to write only to the Few refin'd!
Yet tho' that nice Ambition you pursue,
'Tis not in Congreve 's Power to please but few.
Implicitly devoted to his Fame,
Well-dress'd Barbarians know his awful Name;
Tho' senseless they're of Mirth, but when they laugh,
As they feel Wine, but when, 'till Drunk, they quaff.
On you, from Fate, a lavish Portion fell
In ev'ry way of Writing to excell.
Your Muse Applause to Arabella brings,
In Notes as sweet as Arabella sings,
When e'er you draw an undissembled Woe,
With sweet Distress your Rural Numbers flow;
Pastora 's the Complaint of ev'ry Swain,
Pastora still the Eccho of the Plain!
Or if your Muse describe, with warming Force,
The wounded Frenchman falling from his Horse;
And her own William glorious in the Strife,
Bestowing on the prostrate Foe his Life:
You the great Act as gen'rously Rehearse,
And all the English Fury's in your Verse.
By your selected Scenes, and handsome Choice,
Ennobled Comedy exalts her Voice;
You check unjust Esteem and fond Desire,
And teach to Scorn, what else we should Admire;
The just Impression taught by you we bear,
The Player acts the World, the World the Player,
Whom still that World unjustly disesteems,
Tho' he, alone, professes what he seems:
But when your Muse assumes her Tragick Part,
She conquers and she reigns in ev'ry Heart;
To mourn with her, Men cheat their private Woe,
And gen'rous Pity's all the Grief they know;
The Widow, who impatient of Delay,
From the Town-joys must Mask it to the Play,
Joins with your Mourning-Bride's resistless Moan,
And weeps a Loss she slighted, when her own;
You give us Torment, and you give us Ease,
And vary our Affections as you please;
Is not a Heart so kind as yours in Pain,
To load your Friends with Cares you only feign;
Your friends in Grief, compos'd yourself, to leave?
But 'tis the only way you'll e'er deceive.
Then still, great Sir, your moving Pow'r employ,
To lull our Sorrow, and correct our Joy.