Page:Poetical Works of John Oldham.djvu/170

Do not improbabilities conceive,
And hope to ram them into my belief;
Ne'er make a witch upon the stage appear,
Riding enchanted broomstick through the air;
Nor cannibal a living infant spew,
Which he had murdered, and devoured but now.
The graver sort dislike all poetry
Which does not (as they call it) edify;
And youthful sparks as much that wit despise,
Which is not strewed with pleasant gaieties;
But he that has the knack of mingling well
What is of use with what's agreeable,
That knows at once how to instruct and please,
Is justly crowned by all men's suffrages:
These are the works, which, valued everywhere,
Enrich Paul's Churchyard, and the stationer;
These, admiration through all nations claim,
And through all ages spread their author's fame.
Yet there are faults wherewith we ought to bear;
An instrument may sometimes chance to jar
In the best hand, in spite of all its care;
Nor have I known that skilful marksman yet
So fortunate, who never missed the white.
But where I many excellencies find,
I'm not so nicely critical to mind
Each slight mistake an author may produce,
Which human frailty justly may excuse.
Yet he, who having oft been taught to mend
A fault, will still pursue it to the end,
Is like that scraping fool, who the same note
Is ever playing, and is ever out;
And silly as that bubble every whit,
Who at the self-same blot is always hit.
When such a lewd incorrigible sot
Lights by mere chance upon some happy thought,
Among such filthy trash I vex to see't,
And wonder how the devil he came by't.