Alexander Pope (1688–1744). Complete Poetical Works. 1903.
Poems: 171827The Curll Miscellanies. III. Sandys Ghost
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And pleasure about town,
Read this, ere you translate one bit
Of books of high renown.
Nor think your verses sterling,
Tho’ with a golden pen you scrawl,
And scribble in a Berlin.
Nor bureau of expense,
Nor standish well japann’d, avails
To writing of good sense.
With saucer eyes of fire,
In woful wise did sore affright
A Wit and courtly Squire:
Like puppy tame, that uses
To fetch and carry in his mouth
The works of all the Muses.
That hereto was so civil;
And sell his soul for vanity
To Rhyming and the Devil?
With glitt’ring studs about;
Within the same did Sandys lurk,
Tho’ Ovid lay without.
Forth popp’d the sprite so thin,
And from the keyhole bolted out,
All upright as a pin.
And ruff composed most duly,
This Squire he dropp’d his pen full soon,
While as the light burnt bluely.
Write on, nor let me scare ye!
Forsooth, if rhymes fall not in right,
To Budgell seek or Carey.
Poor Ovid finds no quarter!
See first the merry P[embroke] comes
In haste without his garter.
Wits, Witlings, Prigs, and Peers:
Garth at St. James’s, and at White’s,
Beats up for volunteers.
Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,
Tom B[urne]t, or Tom D’Urfey may,
John Dunton, Steele, or any one.
Some frigid rhymes disburses,
They shall like Persian tales be read,
And glad both babes and nurses.
And Ozell’s with Lord Hervey’s,
Tickell and Addison combine,
And P[o]pe translate with Jervas.
Who bows to every lady,
Shall join with F[rowde] in one accord,
And be like Tate and Brady.
I pray, where can the hurt lie?
Since you have brains as well as men,
As witness Lady Wortley.
Review them and tell noses;
For to poor Ovid shall befall
A strange metamorphosis;
Than all his books can vapour—
‘To what (quoth ’Squire) shall Ovid change?’
Quoth Sandys, ‘To waste paper.’