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Allow of any mean in Poesie.
As an ill consort, and a course perfume,
Disgrace the Delicacy of a Feast,
And might with more discretion have been spar'd,
So Poesie, whose end is to delight,
Admits of no Degrees, but must be still,
Sublimely good, or despicably ill.
In other things men have some reason left;
And one that cannot Dance, or Fence, or Run;
Despairing of success, forbears to Try;
But all (without consideration) write;
Some thinking that th' omnipotence of Wealth
Can turn them into Poets when they please.
But Piso, you are of too quick a sight
Not to discern which way your Talent lies,
Or vainly struggle with your Genius;
Yet if it ever be your fate to Write,
Let your Productions pass the strictest Hands,
As an ill consort, and a course perfume,
Disgrace the Delicacy of a Feast,
And might with more discretion have been spar'd,
So Poesie, whose end is to delight,
Admits of no Degrees, but must be still,
Sublimely good, or despicably ill.
In other things men have some reason left;
And one that cannot Dance, or Fence, or Run;
Despairing of success, forbears to Try;
But all (without consideration) write;
Some thinking that th' omnipotence of Wealth
Can turn them into Poets when they please.
But Piso, you are of too quick a sight
Not to discern which way your Talent lies,
Or vainly struggle with your Genius;
Yet if it ever be your fate to Write,
Let your Productions pass the strictest Hands,
Mine
