An Epistle To Fleetwood Shephard, Esq. Burleigh, May 14, 1689
Sir,
As once a twelvemonth to the priest,
Holy at Rome, here Antichrist,
The Spanish king presents a jennet
To show his love, -- that's all that's in it;
For if his Holiness would thump
His reverend bum 'gainst horse's rump,
He might be 'quipp'd from his own stable
With one more white and eke more able.
Or as with gondolas and men his
Good excellence the duke of Venice
(I wish, for rhyme, it had been the king)
Sails out, and gives the Gulf a ring,
Which trick of state he wisely maintains,
Keeps kindness up 'twixt old acquaintance,
For else, in honest truth, the sea
Has much less need of gold than he.
Or, not to rove and pump one's fancy
For popish similes beyond sea,
As folks from mudwall'd tenement
Bring landlords pepper corn for rent,
Present a turkey or a hen
To those might better spare them ten;
Even so, with all submission, I
(For first men instance, then apply)
Send you each year a homely letter,
Who may return me much a better.
Then take it, Sir, as it was writ
To pay respect, and not show wit,
Nor look askew at what is saith;
There's no petition in it, -- 'faith.
Here some would scratch their heads, and try
What they should write, and how, and why;
But I conceive such folks are quite in
Mistakes in theory of writing.
If once for principle 'tis laid
That thought is trouble to the head,
I argue thus: The world agrees
That he writes well who writes with ease;
Then he, by sequel logical,
Writes best who never thinks at all.
Verse comes from heaven like inward light;
Mere human pains can ne'er come by't;
The god, not we, the poem makes;
We only tell folks what he speaks.
Hence when anatomists discourse
How like brutes' organs are to ours,
They grant, if higher powers think fit,
A bear might soon be made a wit,
And that for any thing in nature,
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poem by Matthew Prior
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