Classic Poem

ODE XXXIII

1

Oh, doe not breath too loud; though greife sometimes
In rude Expressions, and disordred Rhimes
Appeare;
It is not safe to sigh too loud, when wee
Deplore such tender Cases; Poesie
Must here
Curbe her free Quill; and couch a big intent
In the darke folds, of a faigned Argument.

2

But Danger, onlie guilt attends; I bring
White Thoughts; and never learned how to sing
Of more
Then Truth and Justice in each Line might seale;
Unbyassed with Spleene, or too much Zeale.
How poore
Should I my selfe account? had I bene swaied
By these fraile Passions, this, or that t' have said?

3

Then may I boldly utter, my free Thought;
And to the Age, poure all my Bosome out.
I will
Noe longer Swell, and pinch my throbbing brest
With Fears and Fancies, to my owne unrest.
Poor Quill!
Yet thou art free, and Just to all my Care;
I am befreinded Still, to have thee neare.

4

And though perhaps, I privilie expresse
The summe of all my Thoughts, when nothing lesse
Is read;
I write what I intend, and rather Chuse
Such Intricacies; though not soe abtruse
As need
An Index, to informe me what the Ayme
Was, when I laied the plott, or raised the frame.