EPISTLES.
59
And, when the whiteness of her skin I show, With ecstasy bethink myself of snow. 32Thus, without pains, I tinkle in the close, And sweeten into verse insipid prose
The country scraper, when he wakes his crowd, And makes the tortur'd cat-gut squeak aloud, 36Is often ravish'd, and in transport lost: What more, my friend, can fam'd Corelli boast, When harmony herself from heav'n descends, And on the artist's moving bow attends? 40
Why then, in making verses should I strain For wit, and of Apollo beg a vein?Why study Horace and the Stagyrite?Why cramp my dulness, and in torment write? 44Let me transgress by nature, not by rule, An artless Idiot, not a study'd fool, A Withers, not a Rhymer, since I aim At nothing less, in writing, than a name. 48
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