To AQUILA ROSE

How can my Verse before Aquila stand! How droops my Head to hear its Numbers scan'd! Already I the Critick's Censures hear, At least I know my Doom, and needs must fear. My Heart suggests this Nonsense will offend; My Brain has Prescience; but not Skill to mend: And must my cripled Fancy write, to show What Laurels in our fertile Country grow? More safe it were for me no Friends to claim Than such, who, trifling with a Poet's Name. Have plac'd me in the List of Phaebus' Sons: Oh! had their Commendations pass'd for Puns; That I unprais'd Incognito might lain, Not wishing Fame, nor meeting with Disdain: But I must bear the Test, the Tryal's short, And quick the Sentence in Apollo's Court. Each feeble Line wears Guilt; and I have writ Ev'n here enough to damn me for a Wit. Alas! what must I do?—Some Mercy give, Not that I crave a Poet's Name to live.

But pity me, while I Confession make, Think it no Conquest such a Life to take: My Mother-Tongue is all I dare pretend; No learned Schisms by me were ever pen'd: The Church and State for me may be at rest; No dang'rous Libels e'er escap'd my Breast. No beauteous Female from my flatt'ring Quill Has learnt more Pride, or found more Ways to kill. The Muses chast Recesses to invade, I never durst, or still in vain I pray'd. Some glim'ring Light shone at my Birth, they say, And to Parnassus show'd a dubious Way. Hence 'tis I wander to'ards the happy Stream; But faintly shines my Star, and all's a Dream. The Fate of Tantalus forever threats, And that of Icarus my Woe compleats. Depriv'd of Science, and a Friend to guide, I travel none, or else I travel wide: Yet skilful T—r's Eye has oft' survey'd The Muse's Tracks, and lent his needful Aid. Had forming Nature so auspicious been, E'er now the Wonders of their Mount I'd seen.

Oh Muse! or Oh! thou little busy Sprite, That flutters in the Soul and urgest me to write, Contented with the Relish of a Song, Give to the Bright what can't to me belong. Let Admiration of superiour Lays Be found my Task, to chaunt a Poet's Praise, Sublimely sing, in elevated Strains, Of Nymphs their Beauty, and the Loves of Swains. All this without a Muse! No, faithless Star, Thou'st led me Dreaming in the Wilds too far. Nay, rather, if the World I must oblige, To stand a Mock let be my Privilege, That Wits, who write Burlesque, may call upon, What me inspir'd, to drive them laughing on.