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O my unhappy Stars! If in the Spring,
Some Physick had not cur'd me of the spleen,
None would have writ with more success than I;
But I am satisfied to keep my sense,
And only serve to whet that Wit in you,
To which I willingly resign my claim.
Yet without writing I may teach to write,
Tell what the duty of a Poet is;
Wherein his Wealth and Ornament consist,
And how he may be form'd, and how improv'd,
Whats fit, what not, what excellent or ill,
Sound judgment is the ground of Writing well:
And when Philosophy directs your choice
To proper Subjects rightly understood,
Words from your Pen will naturally flow;
He only gives the proper Characters,
Who knows the duty of all Ranks of Men,
Some Physick had not cur'd me of the spleen,
None would have writ with more success than I;
But I am satisfied to keep my sense,
And only serve to whet that Wit in you,
To which I willingly resign my claim.
Yet without writing I may teach to write,
Tell what the duty of a Poet is;
Wherein his Wealth and Ornament consist,
And how he may be form'd, and how improv'd,
Whats fit, what not, what excellent or ill,
Sound judgment is the ground of Writing well:
And when Philosophy directs your choice
To proper Subjects rightly understood,
Words from your Pen will naturally flow;
He only gives the proper Characters,
Who knows the duty of all Ranks of Men,
And
