The Madrigal at first was overcome, And the proud Sonnet fell by the same doom; With these grave Tragedy adorned her flights, And mournful Elegy her funeral rites, A hero never failed them on the stage: Without his point a lover durst not rage; The amorous shepherds took more care to prove True to his point, than faithful to their love. Each word, like Janus, had a double face, And prose, as well as verse, allowed it place; The lawyer with conceits adorned his speech, The parson without quibbling could not preach. At last affronted reason looked about, And from all serious matters shut them out; Declared that none should use them without shame, Except a scattering, in the epigram-- Provided that by art, and in due time, They turned upon the thought, and not the rime. Thus in all parts disorders did abate; Yet quibblers in the court had leave to prate, Insipid jesters and unpleasant fools, A corporation of dull, punning drolls. 'Tis not but that sometimes a dextrous muse May with advantage a turned sense abuse, And on a word may trifle with address; But above all, avoid the fond excess, And think not, when your verse and sense are lame, With a dull point to tag your epigram. TO MOLIÈRE From 'The Satires' Unequaled genius, whose warm fancy knows No rhyming labor, no poetic throes; To whom Apollo has unlocked his store; Whose coin is struck from pure Parnassian ore; Thou, dextrous master, teach thy skill to me, And tell me, Molière, how to1 rhyme like thee! You never falter when the close comes round, Or leave the substance to preserve the sound; You never wander after words that fly, For all the words you need before you lie. But I, who--smarting for my sins of late-- With itch of rhyme am visited by fate, Expend on air my unavailing force, And, hunting sounds, am sweated like a horse. In vain I often muse from dawn till night: When I mean black, my stubborn verse says white; If I should paint a coxcomb's flippant mien, I scarcely can forbear to name the Dean; If asked to tell the strains that purest flow, My heart says Virgil, but my pen Quinault; In short, whatever I attempt to say, Mischance conducts me quite the other way. At times, fatigued and fretted with the pain, When every effort for relief is vain, The fruitless chase I peevishly give o'er, And swear a thousand times to write no more: But, after thousand vows, perhaps by chance, Before my careless eyes the couplets dance. Then with new force my flame bursts out again, Pleased I resume the paper and the pen; And, all my anger and my oaths forgot, I calmly muse and resolutely blot.