Classic Poem

OR A

Proper New BALLAD

On the New

OVID 's METAMORPHOSIS

As it was intended to be

Translated by Persons of Quality

Ye Lords and Commons, Men of Wit
And Pleasure about Town;
Read this, e'er you translate one Bit
Of Books of high Renown.

Beware of Latin Authors all!
Nor think your Verses Sterling,
Tho' with a Golden Pen you scrawl,
And scribble in a Berlin :

For not the Desk with silver Nails,
Nor Bureau of Expence,
Nor Standish well japan'd, avails
To writing of good Sense.

Hear how a Ghost in dead of Night,
With saucer Eyes of Fire,
In woful wise did sore affright
A Wit and courtly 'Squire.

Rare Imp of Phaebus , hopeful Youth!
Like Puppy tame that uses
To fetch and carry, in his Mouth,
The Works of all the Muses.

Ah! why did he write Poetry,
That hereto was so civil;
And sell his Soul for Vanity,
To Rhyming and the Devil?

A Desk he had of curious Work,
With glitt'ring Studs about;
Within the same did Sandys lurk,
Tho' Ovid lay without.

Now as he scratch'd to fetch up Thought,
Forth popp'd the Sprite so thin;
And from the Key-Hole bolted out,
All upright as a Pin,

With Whiskers, Band, and Pantaloon,
And Ruff compos'd most duly;
This 'Squire he dropp'd his Pen full soon,
While as the Light burnt bluely.

Ho! Master Sam, quoth Sandys ' Sprite,
Write on, nor let me scare ye;
Forsooth, if Rhymes fall in not right,
To Budgell seek, or Carey .

I hear the Beat of Jacob 's Drums,
Poor Ovid finds no Quarter!
See first the merry Pelham comes
In haste, without his Garter.

Then Lords and Lordings, 'Squires and Knights,
Wits, Witlings, Prigs, and Peers;
Garth at St. James's , and at White 's,
Beats up for Volunteers.

What Fenton will not do, nor Gay ,
Nor Congreve, Rowe , nor Stanyan ,
Tom Burnet or Tom D'Urfy may,
John Dunton, Steel , or any one.

If Justice Philip 's costive Head
Some frigid Rhymes disburses;
They shall like Persian Tales be read,
And glad both Babes and Nurses.

Let Warwick 's Muse with Ashurst join,
And L'Ozel 's with Lord Hervey 's:
Tickell and Addison combine,
And Pope translate with Jervis .

Lumley himself, that lively Lord
Who bows to ev'ry Lady,
Shall join with Frowde in one Accord,
And be like Tate and Brady .

Ye Ladies too draw forth your Pen,
I pray where can the Hurt lie?
Since you have Brains as well as Men,
As witness Lady Wortley .

Now, Tonson , lift thy Forces all,
Review them, and tell Noses;
For to poor Ovid shall befal
A strange Metamorphosis .

A Metamorphosis more strange
Than all his Books can vapour:
" To what (quoth 'Squire) shall Ovid change?"
Quoth Sandys: Into Waste-Paper .