He says, poor poets lost, while players won, PROLOGUE TO THE "THREE HOURS AFTER MARRIAGE."1 AUTHORS are judg'd by strange capricious rules; The great ones are thought mad, the small ones fools: Yet sure the best are most severely fated; By running goods these graceless owlers gain; 1 See Memoir prefixed to these volumes, p. lxi. But wit, like wine, from happier climates brought, Dash'd by these rogues, turns English common draught. They pall Moliere's and Lopez' sprightly strain, And teach dull harlequins to grin in vain. How shall our author hope a gentler fate, To fetch his fools and knaves from foreign climes. Let him hiss loud, to show you all he's hit. A common blessing! now 'tis yours, now mine. To keep this cap for such as will, to wear. Of course resign'd it to the next that writ) 2 Shows a cap with ears. 3 Flings down the cap, and exit. SANDYS' GHOST: OR, A PROPER NEW BALLAD ON THE NEW OVID'S METAMORPHOSES: AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF QUALITY.2 YE Lords and Commons, men of wit Beware of Latin authors all, Nor think your verses sterling, For not the desk with silver nails, Nor standish well japann'd, avails To writing of good sense. 1 George Sandys, the old, and as yet unequalled, translator of Ovid's Metamorphoses. 2 A note prefixed to this poem in Roscoe's ed. of Pope's Works informs us that "Sir Samuel Garth, who published the Metamorphoses of Ovid, translated by Dryden, Addison, Garth, Mainwaring, Congreve, Rowe, Pope, Gay, Eusden, Croxal, and other eminent hands,' had himself no other share in the undertaking, than engaging the various translators in their task, and putting their labours into some order." The fact is, Sir Samuel translated the whole of the 14th Book, and the story of Cippus in the 15th Book of the Metamorphoses. Hear how a ghost in dead of night, In woful wise did sore affrigh A wit and courtly 'squire. Rare imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth! To fetch and carry in his mouth Ah! why did he write poetry, A desk he had of curious work, Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought, Forth popp'd the sprite so thin, And from the keyhole bolted out, All upright as a pin. With whiskers, band, and pantaloon, Ho! master Sam, quoth Sandys' sprite, VOL. II. P I hear the beat of Jacob's3 drums, Poor Ovid finds no quarter! Then lords and lordlings, 'squires and knights, Beats up for volunteers. What Fenton will not do, nor Gay, Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan, If justice Philips' costive head They shall like Persian tales be read, Let Warwick's Muse with Ash-t join, And Pope translate with Jervas. Lhimself, that lively lord, 3 Old Jacob Tonson, the publisher of the Metamorphoses. 4 Perhaps Pembroke. |