Take, if you please, of witless sound,
And empty nothings, half a pound—
Oi' if to weigh the things be hard,
Take if you like just half a yard—
Then in some ragged rhyme confine it,
And from all common sense refine it ;
Set passion's bellows madly blowing,
Then catch young Love-that urchin knowing—
And bone and boil him in the mess,
Till melted down by soft distress
To one sweet mass of tenderness.
Whether you write for Miss or Mister
Make from this mass a constant blister ;
Keep them for ever on the smart.
Blast all their hopes, and break their heart.
It matters not—with truth 'tis spoken—
How often modern hearts are broken.
Let all your 'pleasures' be welljaded,
And all the 'flowers' you use be faded.
Let dark despair then bind his brows
With twenty thousand broken vows !
Take hope and fear, and joy and sadness,
Which efi'ervescing end in madness.
All youth e'er dreamt, or manhood knew.
The heart e'er loved, or fancy drew,
Must all turn out one curst miscarriagCy
And end in sudden death or marriage.
Perhaps if nurs'd in solitude
Your muse aspires to 'something good?'
Avoid that rock—the great offence
Is truth—or wit—or common sense.
Then let some modern man of music—
Making both infidel and Jew sick—
Awake his lyre, with jarring tone,
And call thy glory all his own ;
Let him strum o'er it, and turmoil it.
Secure of this— he cannot spoil it.
'Tis greatly wise (your wit all fudge is)
To nlay the fool wherefools are judges.