To the Reader

Reader! I am no Poet: but I grieve! Behold here, what that passion can do! That forc'd a verse, without Apollo's leave, And whether th' Learned Sisters would or no. My Griefs can hardly speak: my sobbing Muse In broken terms our sad bereavement rues.

I wonder what the learned World still ailes, To tune and pace their sorrows and complaints In Rhythm and Verse! He that his crosses wailes Indeed, would vent his griefs without restraints. To tye our grief to numbers, measures, feet, Is not to let it loose, but fetter it.

Is this it? that a Poets softer heart Of great impressions susceptible is? He wisely doth perform his mourning part In Verse, lest grief should time and measure miss. But griefs unmeasurable would not be Curb'd, and rein'd-in by measur'd Poetry.

Stop, stop my Pen! lest Israel's singer sweet Should be condemn'd, who, in that Song of th' Bow, To vent his passionate complaints thought meet, And to bewail his great Friends overthrow. King David in an Elegiack Knell, Rung out his dolours, when dear Jona'than fell.

No matter what's the trifling Poets Use, Th' Imperious Law of custome we decide: We have Diviner Warrant to produce, The Soveraign, Sacred Poet is our guide, He wept his Friend in verse: then let us try, Now Shepard's faln, to write his Elegy.