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Read Ebook: Poeta de Tristibus; Or The Poet's Complaint by Anonymous Love Harold Commentator
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Ebook has 74 lines and 18049 words, and 2 pages
Contributor: Harold Love
THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY
POETA DE TRISTIBUS: OR, THE Poet's Complaint
HAROLD LOVE
PUBLICATION NUMBER 149
WILLIAM ANDREWS CLARK MEMORIAL LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES
GENERAL EDITORS
ASSOCIATE EDITOR
ADVISORY EDITORS
CORRESPONDING SECRETARY
EDITORIAL ASSISTANT
INTRODUCTION
An enlarged version of #1 in four cantos completed by 10 January 1681.
Monash University
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
POETA DE TRISTIBUS:
OR, THE
Poet's Complaint.
POEM
READER.
The following Poem was presented me about a year ago; and was designed only for my Private Divertisement: But numerous Draughts being dispers'd abroad, by the Unworthiness of a Gentleman I Trusted it withal, I was more easily perswaded to Publish the Original, to prevent the Inconveniencies of a Surreptitious Copy, which, without my Allowance, was designed for the Press.
But I must Confess, that in the Third Part of this Poem, there were some Capital Letters which began the Names of certain Poets of this Age, but them I have so altered, lest any Offence should be given, that by them I am sure no Discovery can be made. I will no longer detain you from your better Divertisement in the following Poem; which, if you have any good Nature, you cannot chuse but favour, especially if you carry along with you those several Circumstances which in the way will offer themselves to you in the Author's behalf.
The Author's Epistle.
SIR,
In the Epilogue to the same Play.
And a little after.
A Preface to no Book, a Porch to no House, Here is the Mountain, but where is the Mouse?
Your assured, Faithful Friend, and most Humble Servant.
POETA DE TRISTIBUS:
OR, THE
Poet's Complaint.
POEM.
The Dunce made Batchelor of Art, Some Fustian Sermon learns by heart, Then Preaches 'fore a Country Squire,} Who his deep Learning does admire, } And gives him sixscore pounds a year.} But he must Marry th' Chamber-Maid, Who is, forsooth, a Mistress made: So he goes on with a fair hope, And of his Pulpit makes a Shop.
Yet since the Press has lately had Its Liberty, 'tis near as bad. For scarce a broken Shop-keeper, Or a cast Serving man grown bare, But herds among our starved Crew, And falls a Writing Poems too. The Plot, the Jesuit, and the Pope Are now grown Theams for ev'ry Fop. Who by such wretched, Ballad-ware, Makes Writing cheap, and Paper dear.
The Stationer grows fat on th' gain, He sucks from the poor Poet's brain. He, and the Printer, who does know Nothing beyond the Cris-cros-row, Do still their Heads together joyn To cheat the Poet of his Coyn. Whil'st he, poor Drudge! must toil and sweat Honourable stabs to get; And is forc'd to sigh, and stay For the Lawrel 'till he's gray: And at last together come To his Honour, and his Tomb. Tho' when dead, his Friends may'nt raise Enough to gild his Fun'ral Bays.
I hardly a poor Lawyer know, Unless some who are Poets too. They thrive by Rapine and Revenge, And making Enemies of Friends: Feeding on others hopes and fears, On Orphants groans, and Widows tears. In short, the World it self; and all We Trade, and Art, and Science call, Are grand Impostures; false and vain, Invented but to bring in gain.
So th' Natural Philosopher 'S perpetual Motion keeps a stir, But straight his Engines rest obtain, And all the Motion's in his brain; Except some easie hand, forsooth, That opens but to fill his mouth.
Rhet'rick, which we so much adore, Ne'r had a perfect Orator. And yet their mouths provide; I trow,} As lame and cripled people's do, } Who lie, because they cannot go. }
The lingring Chymsts blow their fire, Till their own Lamps of Life expire; And searcheth for th' Inchanted stone, Till they themselves grow cold as one; Which they would quickly do, but that 'Tis written in the Book of Fate, The great work Cannot be carried on alone, But asks more hands; and so another, That's Rich, helps his poor Chymick Brother.
Poor Poet! what a wretch th'art grown? Cast to a Dungeon from a Throne! Thou who but now did'st reach the Sky, Low as Despair art forc'd to lie: Those soaring thoughts thou didst admire, With thy Poetick rage expire. 'Twas but a Dream, and now I see Riddles unty'd to Fetter me. The Angels height procur'd their Thrall, But 'tis my lowness makes me Fall. Had Nature giv'n me a Rich Mine, As other Fops I'd happy been; Nor had I been exposed thus, To make my plaints ridiculous.
This Language less dismaid the Poet, Having been long accustom'd to it: Howe're, he thought it not amiss To give him these fair promises.
Oh that I had a wooden Leg! Or but one Arm, then might I beg! I'd Steal or Cheat, did I know how, 'Tis better hang than perish so.
Lastly, I must my self explain, One of the same unhappy Train: Who neither Wit or Learning boast, For both are in a Poet lost. Scatter'd to nought in his Carreer, Through Airy Roads, he knows not where. Neither do I hope to find One grain of Fortune left behind. For all I grasp'd which pleas'd me here, Whether they Wealth, or Honours were, As soon they were snatch'd back again, And swallow'd in this Hurricane. But, Sir, I need not op'e to you } These Ulcers of my Fate anew, } You've seen so oft, and pitty'd too.} I'll therefore only blame the Cause Which did such Miseries produce: And then for ever bid good-by'e To that starv'd Hag of Poetry.
But must I from thy Service go Naked, in mid'st of Winter too? Did I for this a year, or more, Thy Airy, empty Shrine adore? Are thus my Cares and Watchings pay'd? The thousand Vows and Pray'rs I made? The Lights which on thy Altar shone, When thou wert forc'd to hide thy own? Think how ost thou hast me espy'd Walking by such a Rivers side! When I saw thy shining Beam Gild the smooth Surface of the Stream, Thou know'st I did thy Image greet, And sang a thousand Hymns to it. But since I find I am thus serv'd, Rent and torn, and almost starv'd, Yet would'st thou have me longer stay To expect a fairer Day? Should I be couzen'd to do so, And again my Vows renew, My Case would never better'd be } Under thy Conduct, no, tho' I } Should share in th' Immortality.}
PRESS VARIANTS
AND
NOTES
PRESS VARIANTS
Copies collated: Clark ; Trinity College, Cambridge, H. 6. 93^9 and H. 10. 28^6 ; British Museum ; Folger ; Folger/Luttrell .
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