Classic Poem

ODE II

1

How much a verse deceives,
Unhappie man! who weaves
His hopes upon it?
Thinking to gaine a grace,
From some light wantons face,
With lighter Sonnet;
His Thoughts, his Hope, his Fate hang all upon it.

2

To Titles, or great Name,
One brings an Epigram,
Yet scarce knowes why;
Another, comes too late
Deploreing humane Fate
In Elegie:
Praising a name to Raise his owne more high.

3

Some, Souce in bitter Inke,
The venome, which they thinke,
To taxe the Times:
Write Satire, to betray
Selfe-guilt, whilst they display
The Ages Crimes,
And vindicate their owne with biting Rhimes.

4
Some in a higher Straine,
Must Annalize the Raigne
Of Caesars Glorie;
Breath big, and thunder State,
Lest he extenuate,
And dimme, the Storie,
Which, his muse tells him, is not Transitorie.

5

Another, doth prefer
To the full Theater,
His giddie verse;
Now, in a Comicke Stile
Hee wantons; in a while,
Growne bit, and feirce,
The buskind Muse comes out, in Blood and Tears.
6

How much the verse deceives
Our hopes? like Autumne leaves
They blow away;
The Time wee spent, is lost;
And onlie Time can boast,
In our Decay:
Our verse forgot, not one Line left to Say:

7

Great Monster, shall wee gaine
Our Labour for our paine?
And noe more wage?
Ile bring, to stop thy Jawes,
And Cancell all thy Lawes
Of Right, or Rage,
A Verse, too Stronge for Envie or for Age.