Tixall Poetry/The Immortality of Poesie. To Envy

by unknown author

The Immortality of Poesie.

To Envy.

Ovid. Amor. Lib. I. Eleg. 15.

 

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Envy, how dar'st thou say that I in vain
Have spent my years, or with false names profane
The sacred product of my fertile brain?

'Tis true, in th' art of war I am not skill'd,
No trophies did I e'er attempt to build,
By gaining grinning honour in the field.

I never try'd to learn the tedious laws,
Or sought, in pleading of a desperate cause,
To sell my breath for interest or applause.

Such little things I scorn; I nobly aim
At that which may secure a lasting fame,
And through the world immortalize my name.

Old Chaucer shall, for his facetious style,
Be read and praised by warlike Britons, while
The sea enriches and defends their isle.

While the whole earth resounds Eliza's fame,
Who aw'd the French, and did the Spaniard tame,
The English will remember Spenser's name.

While flatt'rers thrive and parasites shall dine,
While commonwealths afford a Catiline,
Laborious Jonson shall be thought divine.

Thee, Shakespear! poets ever shall adore,
Whose wealthy fancy left so vast a store,
They still refine thy rough but precious ore.

So long shall Cowley be admired above
The crowd, as David's troubles pity move,
Till women cease to charm and youth to love.

While we the fall of our first parents grieve,
And worship him who did that fall retrieve,
Milton shall in majestick numbers live.

Dryden will last as long as wit and sense,
While judgment is required to excellence,
While perfect language charms an audience.

As long as men are false and women vain,
While gold continues to be virtue's bane,
In pointed satire Wycherly shall reign.

When the aspiring Grecian in the east,
And haughty Philip is forgot i' th' west,
Then Lee and Otway's works shall be supprest.

While fathers are severe, and servants cheat,
Till bawds and whores can live without deceit,
Sedley and easy Etherege shall be great.

Stones will consume, age will on metals prey,
But deathless verse no time can wear away;
That stands the shock of years without decay.

When kingdoms shall be lost in sloth and lust,
When treasures fail, and glorious arms shall rust,
Verse only lifts itself above the dust.

Come, bright Apollo, then, let me drink deep
Of that blest spring thou dost for poets keep,
While in ignoble ease the world's asleep.

Let wreaths of tender myrtle crown my head,
Let me be still by anxious lovers read,
Envy'd alive, but honour'd when I'm dead.

Till after death, desert was never crown'd,
When my ashes are forgotten under ground,
Then my best part will be immortal found.