Page:Poetical Works of John Oldham.djvu/176

But if he found you once a stubborn sot,
That would not be corrected in a fault,
He would no more his pains and counsel spend
On an abandoned fool that scorned to mend;
But bid you in the devil's name go on,
And hug your dear impertinence alone.
A trusty knowing friend will boldly dare
To give his sense and judgment, wheresoe'er
He sees a fault: 'Here, sir, good faith, you're low,
And must some heightning on the place bestow;
There, if you mind, the rhyme is harsh and rough,
And should be softened to go smoothlier off;
Your strokes are here of varnish left too bare,
Your colours there too thick laid on appear;
Your metaphor is coarse, that phrase not pure,
This word improper, and that sense obscure.'
In fine, you'll find him a strict censurer,
That will not your least negligences spare
Through a vain fear of disobliging you.
They are but slight and trivial things, 'tis true;
Yet these same trifles (take a poet's word)
Matter of high importance will afford,
Whene'er by means of them you come to be
Exposed to laughter, scorn, and infamy.
Not those with ’Lord have mercy!' on their doors,
Venom of adders, or infected whores,
Are dreaded worse by men of sense and wit,
Than a mad scribbler in his raving fit;
Like dog, whose tail is pegged into a bone,
The hooting rabble all about the town
Pursue the cur, and pelt him up and down.
Should this poor frantic, as he passed along,
Intent on 's rhyming work amidst the throng,
Into Fleet-ditch, or some deep cellar fall,
And till he rent his throat for succour bawl,
No one would lend an helping hand at call;
For who, the plague! could guess at his design,
Whether he did not for the nonce drop in?