To a Gentleman, who requested a Copy of Verses from the Author. Stephen Duck Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T90234 K073280.000 Duck, Stephen, 1705-1756. Poems on several occasions: By Stephen Duck. London printed for the author 1736 pp. []-4. xl,334,[2]p. ; 4⁰.

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To a Gentleman , who requested a Copy of Verses from the Author . SIR , I Have , before the Time prescrib'd by you , Expos'd my weak Production to your View , Which may , I hope , have Pardon at your Hand , Because produc'd to Light by your Command Perhaps you might expect some finish'd Ode , Or sacred Song , to sound the Praise of God ; A glorious Thought , and laudable ! But then Think what illit'rate Poet guides the Pen : Ill suit such Tasks with one who holds the Plough , Such lofty Subjects with a Fate so low . SIR , were your Eloquence and Learning mine , And I , like you , a Fav'rite of the Nine ; I quickly would Parnassus' Summit climb , And find a Hero worthy of my Rhyme : Nor should my Muse the Grecian Monarchs trace , Nor would I celebrate the Trojan Race ; Nor any of those martial Sons of Fame , Pagans , unworthy of a Christian's Theme . Far nobler Thoughts my grateful Voice should raise , In lofty Strains , to great MESSIAH's Praise : I'd joyfully resound his wond'rous Birth , And paint his Godlike Virtues , whilst on Earth ; Then , with Reluctance , Horror , and Surprize , I'd mournfully relate his Agonies ; I'd trace the heav'nly Hero to the Tree , Sing what he suffer'd there for you and me ; Next , in heroic Numbers , would I tell , How soon he baffled Death , and vanquish'd Hell , Subdu'd the Grave , and shew'd the glorious Way , From Realms of Darkness , to eternal Day . Such noble Subjects should my Lays excite ; And you , my Patron , would in such delight ; Grateful to me , when you , well-pleas'd , should view Th'accomplish'd sacred Song inscrib'd to you . BUT now I must omit MESSIAH's Praise , Lest I degrade him with unworthy Lays ; My Fate compels me silent to remain , For want of Learning to improve my Strain : By which no Thought , tho' well conceiv'd , can rise To full Perfection , but in Embryo dies : Yet my unpolish'd Genius will produce , And bring forth something , tho' of little Use . THUS , in the Country , often have I found , Thro' slothful Man's Neglect , a Plat of Ground , Waste and uncultivated , void of Seeds , Producing nothing , but some trifling Weeds . BUT why stand I my Fate accusing so ? The Field calls me to Labour ; I must go : The Kine low after Meat ; the hungry Steed , Neighing , complains he wants his usual Feed . Then , Sir , adieu : Accept what you did crave , And be propitious to your humble Slave .