Pastorals Epistles Odes (1748)/To a Friend who desired me to write on the Death of King William

by Ambrose Philips

 

EPISTLES.

 

 

TO A

FRIEND,

WHO

Desired me to write on the Death of
King William.

April 20, 1702.

RUST me, dear George, could I in verse but show
What sorrow I, what sorrow all men, owe
To Nassau's fate, or could I hope to raise
A song proportion'd to the Monarch's praise, 4
Could I his merits, or my grief, express,
And proper thoughts in proper language dress,
Unbidden should my pious numbers flow,
The tribute of a heart o'ercharg'd with woe; 8
But, rather than prophane his sacred herse
With languid praises and unhallow'd verse,
My sighs I to myself in silence keep,
And inwardly, with secret anguish, weep? 12

 Let Halifax's Muse (he knew him well)
His virtues to succeeding ages tell.
Let him, who sung the warrior on the Boyne,
(Provoking Dorset in the task to join) 16
And shew'd the hero more than man before,
Let him th' illustrious mortal's fate deplore;
A mournful theme: while, on raw pinions, I
But flutter, and make weak attempts to fly: 20
Content, if, to divert my vacant time,
I can but like some love-sick fopling rhyme,
To some kind-hearted mistress make my court,
And, like a modish wit, in sonnet sport. 24

 Let others, more ambitious, rack their brains
In polish'd sentiments, and labour'd strains:
To blooming Pbillis I a song compose,
And, for a rhyme, compare her to the rose; 28
Then, while my fancy works, I write down morn,
To paint the blush that does her cheek adorn,
And, when the whiteness of her skin I show,
With ecstasy bethink myself of snow. 32
Thus, without pains, I tinkle in the close,
And sweeten into verse insipid prose

 The country scraper, when he wakes his crowd,
And makes the tortur'd cat-gut squeak aloud, 36
Is often ravish'd, and in transport lost:
What more, my friend, can fam'd Corelli boast,
When harmony herself from heav'n descends,
And on the artist's moving bow attends? 40

 Why then, in making verses should I strain
For wit, and of Apollo beg a vein?
Why study Horace and the Stagyrite?
Why cramp my dulness, and in torment write? 44
Let me transgress by nature, not by rule,
An artless Idiot, not a study'd fool,
A Withers, not a Rhymer, since I aim
At nothing less, in writing, than a name. 48