There all alone, and compliments apart, I ask these sober questions of my heart:

Thoughts which at Hyde-park Corner I forgot, Meet and rejoin me in the pensive grot:

Soon as I enter at my country door, My mind resumes the thread it dropt before;

Teach ev'ry thought within its bounds to roll, And keep the equal measure of the soul.

To rules of poetry no more confin'd, I'll learn to smooth and harmonize my mind,

There is a time when poets will grow dull: I'll ev'n leave verses to the boys at school.

Well, on the whole, plain prose must be my fate: Wisdom (curse on it!) will come soon or late.

That, from a patriot of distinguish'd note, Have bled and purged me to a simple vote.'

Whereat the gentleman began to stare-- 'My friends! (he cried) pox take you for your care!

Him the damn'd doctors and his friends immured, They bled, they cupp'd, they purged; in short they cured;

Not quite a madman tho' a pasty fell, And much too wise to walk into a well.

In all but this a man of sober life, Fond of his friend, and civil to his wife;

Who, tho' the House was up, delighted sate, Heard, noted, answer'd, as in full debate:

There lived in primo Georgii (they record) A worthy member, no small fool, a Lord;

Call, if you will, bad rhyming a disease, It gives men happiness, or leaves them ease.

If such the plague and pains to write by rule, Better (say I) be pleas'd, and play the fool;

But ease in writing flows from Art, not Chance, As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.

Then polish all with so much life and ease, You think 't is Nature, and a knack to please;

Prune the luxuriant, the uncouth refine, But show no mercy to an empty line;

Pour the full tide of eloquence along, } Serenely pure, and yet divinely strong, } Rich with the treasures of each foreign tongue; }

Or bid the new be English ages hence (For Use will father what's begot by Sense);

Command old words, that long have slept, to wake, Words that wise Bacon or brave Raleigh spake;

Mark where a bold expressive phrase appears, Bright thro' the rubbish of some hundred years;

Such they 'll degrade; and, sometimes in its stead, In downright charity revive the dead;

Howe'er unwillingly it quits its place, Nay, tho' at Court (perhaps) it may find grace.

Their own strict judges, not a word they spare That wants or force, or light, or weight, or care;

But how severely with themselves proceed The men who write such verse as we can read?

'T is to small purpose that you hold your tongue, Each, prais'd within, is happy all day long:

In vain bad rhymers all mankind reject, They treat themselves with most profound respect;

But let the fit pass o'er; I 'm wise enough To stop my ears to their confounded stuff.