EPISTLES.
59
And, when the whiteness of her skin I show,
With ecstasy bethink myself of snow. 32
Thus, without pains, I tinkle in the close,
And sweeten into verse insipid prose
With ecstasy bethink myself of snow. 32
Thus, 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, 36
Is 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
And makes the tortur'd cat-gut squeak aloud, 36
Is 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? 44
Let 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
For wit, and of Apollo beg a vein?
Why study Horace and the Stagyrite?
Why cramp my dulness, and in torment write? 44
Let 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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