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A
SATYR.
One Night, as I was pondering of late
On all the Mis'ries of my hapless Fate,
Cursing my rhiming Stars, raving in Vain
At all the Pow'rs, which over Poets reign:
In came a ghastly Shape, all pale and thin,
As some poor Sinner, who by Priest had been
Under a long Lent's Penance, starv'd and whip'd,
Or parboil'd Lecher, late from Hot-house crept;
Famish'd his Looks appeared, his Eyes sunk in,
Like Morning-Gown about him hung his Skin;
A Wreath of Lawrel on his Head he wore,
A Book, inscrib'd the Fairy Queen, he bore.
By this I knew him, rose, and bow'd, and said,
' Hail reverend Ghost! all hail most sacred Shade
' Why this great Visit? why vouchsaf'd to me,
' The meanest of thy British Progeny?
' Com'st thou in my uncall'd, unhallow'd Muse,
' Some of thy mighty Spirit to infuse:
' If so; lay on thy Hands, ordain me fit
' For the high Cure, and Ministry of Wit:
' Let me (I beg) thy great Instructions claim,
' Teach me to tread the glorious Paths of Fame.
' Teach me (for none does better know than thou)
' How, like thy self, I may immortal grow.
Thus
