I'd tell you, sir, but questionless you’ve heard
Of the odd end of a Sicilian bard:
Fond to be deemed a god, this fool, it seems,
In 's fit leapt headlong into Etna's flames.
Troth, I could be content an act might pass,
Such poets should have leave, whene'er they please,
To die, and rid us of our grievances.
A God's name let 'em hang, or drown, or choose
What other way they will themselves dispose;
Why should we life against their wills impose?
Might that same fool I mentioned now revive,
He would not be reclaimed, I dare believe,
But soon be playing his odd freaks again,
And still the same capricious hopes retain.
'Tis hard to guess, and harder to allege,
Whether for parricide, or sacrilege,
Or some more strange, unknown, and horrid crime,
Done in their own, or their forefathers' time,
These scribbling wretches have been damned to rhyme:
But certain 'tis, for such a cracked-brained race
Bedlam, or Hogsdon, is the fittest place.
Without their keepers you had better choose
To meet the lions of the Tower broke loose,
Than these wild savage rhymers in the street,
Who with their verses worry all they meet;
In vain you would release yourself; so close
The leeches cleave, that there's no getting loose.
Remorseless they to no entreaties yield,
Till you are with inhuman nonsense killed.
THE PRAISE OF HOMER.
ODE.
I
HAIL, God of Verse! pardon that thus I take in vain
Thy sacred, everlasting name,
And in unhallowed lines blaspheme:
Pardon, that with strange fire thy altars I profane.
