| |
| FOR 1 mighty Wars I thought to Tune my Lute, | |
| And make my Measures to my Subject suit. | |
| Six Feet for ev’ry Verse the Muse design’d: | |
| But Cupid, laughing, when he saw my Mind, | |
| From ev’ry Second Verse a Foot purloin’d. | 5 |
| Who gave Thee, Boy, this Arbitrary sway, | |
| On Subjects, not thy own, Commands to lay, | |
| Who Phœbus only and his Laws obey? | |
| ’Tis more absurd than if the Queen of Love | |
| Should in Minerva’s arms to Battel move; | 10 |
| Or Manly Pallas from that Queen should take | |
| Her Torch, and o’re the dying Lover shake. | |
| In fields as well may Cynthia sow the Corn, | |
| Or Ceres wind in Woods the Bugle Horn. | |
| As well may Phœbus quit the trembling String, | 15 |
| For Sword and Shield; and Mars may learn to Sing. | |
| Already thy Dominions are too large; | |
| Be not ambitious of a Foreign Charge. | |
| If thou wilt Reign e’re all, and ev’ry where, | |
| The God of Musick for his Harp may fear. | 20 |
| Thus when with soaring Wings I seek Renown, | |
| Thou pluck’st my Pinnions, and I flutter down. | |
| Cou’d I on such mean Thoughts my Muse employ, | |
| I want a Mistress or a Blooming Boy. | |
| Thus I complain’d: his Bow the Stripling bent, | 25 |
| And chose an Arrow fit for his Intent. | |
| The Shaft his purpose fatally pursues; | |
| Now, Poet, there’s a Subject for thy Muse. | |
| He said, (too well, alas, he knows his Trade,) | |
| For in my Breast a Mortal Wound he made. | 30 |
| Far hence, ye proud Hexameters, remove, | |
| My Verse is pac’d and tramel’d into love. | |
| With Myrtle Wreaths my thoughtful brows inclose, | |
| While in unequal Verse I sing my Woes. | |
