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Born to myself, I like myself alone,
And must conclude my judgment good, or none:
For could my sense be naught, how should I know
Whether another man's were good or no?
Thus I resolve of my own poetry,
That 'tis the best; and there's a fame for me.
If then I'm happy, what does it advance,
Whether to merit due, or arrogance?
Oh, but the world will take offence hereby!
Why then the world shall suffer for 't, not I.
Did eer this saucy world and I agree,
To let it have its beastly will on me?
Why should my prostituted sense be drawn
To every rule their musty customs spawn?
But men may censure you; 'tis two to one,
Whene'er they censure, they'll be in the wrong.
There's not a thing on Earth, that I can name,
So foolish, and so false, as common fame.
It calls the courtier knave, the plain man rude,
Haughty the grave, and the delightful lewd,
Impertinent the brisk, morose the sad,
Mean the familiar, the reserv'd-one mad.
Poor helpless woman is not favour'd more,
She's a sly hypocrite, or public whore.
Then who the Devil would give this — to be free
From th' innocent reproach of infamy
These things consider'd, make me keep at home and write. (en) |
