The DANGER of Writing VERSE . An EPISTLE . First printed in the Year 1741. By WILLIAM WHITEHEAD , Esq ; Quae poterant unquam satis expurgare cicutae , Ni melius dormire putem , quam scribere versus ? HOR. Ep. 2. Lib. 2. YOU ask me , sir , why thus by phantoms aw'd , No kind occasion tempts the Muse abroad ? Why , when retirement sooths this idle art , To fame regardless sleeps the youthful heart ? ' Twou'd wrong your judgment , shou'd I fairly say Distrust or weakness caus'd the cold delay : Hint the small diff'rence , till we touch the lyre , 'Twixt real genius and too strong desire ; The human slips , or seeming slips pretend , That rouze the critick , but escape the friend ; Nay which , tho' dreadful when the foe pursues , You pass , and smile , and still provoke the Muse . Yet , spite of all you think , or kindly feign , My hand will tremble while it grasps the pen . For not in this , like other arts , we try Our light excursions in a summer sky , No casual flights the dang'rous train admits , But wits once authors , are for ever wits . The fool in prose , like earth's unwieldy son , May oft rise vig'rous , tho' he's oft o'erthrown ; One dangerous crisis marks our rise or fall , By all we're courted , or we're shunn'd by all . Will it avail , that unmatur'd by years , My easy numbers pleas'd your partial ears , If now condemn'd , my riper lays must bear The wise man's censure , and the vain man's sneer ? Or , still more hard , ev'n where he's valu'd most , The man must suffer if the poet's lost ; For wanting wit , be totally undone , And barr'd all arts for having fail'd in one . When fears like these his serious thoughts engage , No bugbear phantom curbs the poet's rage . 'Tis powerful reason holds the streighten'd rein , While flutt'ring fancy to the distant plain Sends a long look , and spreads her wings in vain . But grant for once , th' officious Muse has shed Her gentlest influence on his infant head , Let fears lie vanquish'd , and resounding Fame Give to the bellowing blast the poet's name . And see ! distinguish'd from the crowd he moves , Each finger marks him , and each eye approves ! Secure , as halcyons brooding o'er the deep , The waves roll gently , and the thunders sleep , Obsequious nature binds the tempest's wings , And pleas'd attention listens whilst he sings ! O blissful state , O more than human joy ! What shafts can reach him , or what cares annoy ? What cares , my friend ? why all that man can know , Oppress'd with real or with fancy'd woe . Rude to the world , like earth's first lord expell'd , To climes unknown , from Eden's safer field ; No more eternal springs around him breathe , Black air scowls o'er him , deadly damps beneath ; Now must he learn , misguided youth , to bear Each varying season of the poet's year : Flatt'ry's full beam , detraction's wintry store , The frowns of fortune , or the pride of pow'r . His acts , his words , his thoughts no more his own , Each folly blazon'd , and each frailty known . Is he reserv'd ? — his sense is so refin'd It ne'er descends to trifle with mankind . Open and free ? — they find the secret cause Is vanity ; He courts the world's applause . Nay , tho' he speak not , something still is seen , Each change of face betrays a fault within . If grave , 'tis spleen ; he smiles but to deride ; And downright aukwardness in him is pride . Thus must he steer thro' fame's uncertain seas , Now sunk by censure , and now puff'd by praise ; Contempt with envy strangely mix'd endure , Fear'd where caress'd , and jealous tho' secure . One fatal rock on which good authors split Is thinking all mankind must have their wit ; And the grand business of the world stand still To listen to the dictates of their quill . Hurt if they fail , and yet how few succeed , What's born in leisure men of leisure read ; And half of those have some peculiar whim Their test of sense , and read but to condemn . Besides , on parties now our fame depends , And frowns or smiles , as these are foes or friends . Wit , judgment , nature join ; you strive in vain ; 'Tis keen invective stamps the current strain . Fix'd to one side like Homer's gods , we fight , These always wrong , and those for ever right . And would you chuse to see your friend , resign'd Each conscious tie which guides the virtuous mind , Embroil'd in factions , hurl with dreadful skill The random vengeance of his desp'rate quill ? 'Gainst pride in man with equal pride declaim , And hide ill-nature under virtue's name ? Or deeply vers'd in flattery's wily ways , Flow in full reams of undistinguish'd praise ? To vice's grave , or folly's bust bequeath The blushing trophy , and indignant wreath ? Qui nescit qualia demens Aegyptus portenta colat ? crocodilon adorat . JUV. Sat. 15. Like Aegypt's priests , did endless temples rise , And people with earth's pests th' offended skies ? The Muse of old her native freedom knew , And wild in air the sportive wand'rer flew ; On worth alone her bays eternal strow'd , And found the hero , ere she hymn'd the god . Nor less the chief his kind support return'd , No drooping Muse her slighted labours mourn'd ; But stretch'd at ease she prun'd her growing wings , By sages honour'd and rever'd by kings . Ev'n knowing Greece confess'd her early claim , And warlike Latium caught the gen'rous flame . Not so our age regards the tuneful tongue , 'Tis senseless rapture all , and empty song : No Pollio sheds his genial influence round , No Varus listens whilst the groves resound . Ev'n those , the knowing and the virtuous few , Who noblest ends by noblest means pursue , Forget the poet's use ; the powerful spell Of magic verse , which SIDNEY paints so well , Forget that Homer wak'd the Grecian flame , That Pindar rous'd inglorious Thebes to fame , That every age has great examples given Of virtue taught in verse , and verse inspir'd by heaven . But I forbear — these dreams no longer last , The times of fable and of flights are past . To glory now no laurel'd suppliants bend , No coins are struck , no sacred domes ascend . Yet ye , who still the Muse's charms admire , And best deserve the verse your deeds inspire , Ev'n in these gainful unambitious days , Feel for yourselves at least , ye fond of praise , And learn one lesson taught in mystic rhyme , " 'Tis verse alone arrests the wings of Time . " Bacon de augmentis . Fast to the thread of life , annex'd by Fame , A sculptur'd medal bears each human name , O'er Lethe's streams the fatal threads depend , The glitt'ring medal trembles as they bend ; Close but the shears , when chance or nature calls , The birds of rumour catch it as it falls ; Awhile from bill to bill the trifle's tost , The waves receive it , and 'tis ever lost ! But should the meanest swan that cuts the stream Consign'd to Phoebus , catch the favour'd name , Safe in her mouth she bears the sacred prize To where bright Fame's eternal altars rise . 'Tis there the Muse's friends true laurels wear , There Ptolemy Philadelphus . Aegypt's monarch reigns , and great Augustus there . Patrons of arts must live 'till arts decay , Sacred to verse in every poet's lay . Thus grateful France does Richlieu's worth proclaim , Thus grateful Britain doats on Somers' name . And , spite of party rage , and human flaws , And British liberty and British laws , Times yet to come shall sing of ANNA'S reign , And bards , who blame the measures , love the men . But why round patrons climb th' ambitious bays ? Is interest then the sordid spur to praise ? Persius . Shall the same cause , which prompts the chatt'ring jay To aim at words , inspire the poet's lay ? And is there nothing in the boasted claim Of living labours and a deathless name ? The pictur'd front , with sacred fillets bound ? The sculptur'd bust with laurels wreath'd around ? The annual roses scatter'd o'er his urn , And tears to flow from poets yet unborn ? Illustrious all ! but sure to merit these , Demands at least the poet's learned ease . Say , can the bard attempt what's truly great , Who pants in secret for his future fate ? Him serious toils , and humbler arts engage , To make youth easy , and provide for age ; While lost in silence hangs his useless lyre , And tho' from heav'n it came , fast dies the sacred fire . Or grant true genius with superior force Bursts ev'ry bond , resistless in its course , Yet lives the man , how wild soe'er his aim , Would madly barter fortune's smiles for fame ! Or distant hopes of future ease forego , For all the wreaths that all the Nine bestow ? Well pleas'd to shine , thro' each recording page , The hapless Dryden of a shameless age ? Ill-fated bard ! where-e'er thy name appears , The weeping verse a sad memento bears . Ah ! what avail'd th' enormous blaze between Thy dawn of glory , and thy closing scene ! When sinking nature asks our kind repairs , Unstrung the nerves , and silver'd o'er the hairs ; When stay'd reflection comes uncall'd at last , And grey experience counts each folly past , Untun'd and harsh the sweetest strains appear , And loudest Paeans but fatigue the ear . 'Tis true the man of verse , tho' born to ills , Too oft deserves the very fate he feels . When , vainly frequent at the great man's board , He shares in ev'ry vice with ev'ry lord : Makes to their taste his sober sense submit , And 'gainst his reason madly arms his wit ; Heav'n but in justice turns their serious heart To scorn the wretch , whose life belies his art . He , only he , should haunt the Muse's grove , Whom youth might rev'rence and grey hairs approve ; Whose heav'n-taught numbers , now , in thunder roll'd , Might rouse the virtuous and appal the bold . Now , to truth's dictates lend the grace of ease , And teach instruction happier arts to please . For him would PLATO change their gen'ral fate , And own one poet might improve his state . Curs'd be their verse , and blasted all their bays , Whose sensual lure th' unconscious ear betrays ; Wounds the young breast , ere virtue spreads her shield , And takes , not wins , the scarce disputed field , Tho' specious rhetoric each loose thought refine , Tho' music charm in ev'ry labour'd line , The dang'rous verse , to full perfection grown , BAVIUS might blush , and QUARLES disdain to own . Shou'd some MACHAON , whose sagacious soul Trac'd blushing nature to her inmost goal , Skill'd in each drug the varying world provides , All earth embosoms , and all ocean hides , Nor cooling herb , nor healing balm supply , Ease the swoln breast , or close the languid eye ; But , exquisitely ill , awake disease , And arm with poisons ev'ry baleful breeze : What racks , what tortures must his crimes demand , The more than BORGIA of a bleeding land ! And is less guilty he , whose shameless page Not to the present bounds its subtil rage , But spreads contagion wide , and stains a future age ? Forgive me , Sir , that thus the moral strain , With indignation warm'd , rejects the rein ; Nor think I rove regardless of my theme , 'Tis hence new dangers clog the paths to fame . Not to themselves alone such bards confine Fame's just reproach for virtue's injur'd shrine ; Profan'd by them , the Muse's laurels fade , Her voice neglected , and her flame decay'd . And the son's son must feel the father's crime , A curse entail'd on all the race that rhyme , New cares appear , new terrors swell the train , And must we paint them ere we close the scene ? Say , must the Muse th' unwilling task pursue , And to compleat her dangers mention you ? Yes you , my friend , and those whose kind regard With partial fondness views this humble bard : Ev'n you he dreads . — Ah ! kindly cease to raise Unwilling censure , by exacting praise . Just to itself the jealous world will claim A right to judge ; or give , or cancel fame . And , if th' officious zeal unbounded flows , The friend too partial is the worst of foes . Platonis Apologia . Behold th' ATHENIAN sage , whose piercing mind Had trac'd the wily lab'rinths of mankind , When now condemn'd , he leaves his infant care To all those evils man is born to bear . Not to his friends alone the charge he yields , But nobler hopes on juster motives builds ; Bids e'en his foes their future steps attend , And dare to censure , if they dar'd offend . Wou'd thus the poet trust his offspring forth , Or bloom'd our BRITAIN with ATHENIAN worth : Wou'd the brave foe th' imperfect work engage With honest freedom , not with partial rage , What just productions might the world surprize ! What other POPES , what other MAROS rise ! But since by foes , or friends alike deceiv'd , Too little those , and these too much believ'd ; Since the same fate pursues by diff'rent ways , Undone by censure , or undone by praise ; Since bards themselves submit to vice's rule , And party-feuds grow high , and patrons cool : Since , still unnam'd , unnumber'd ills behind Rise black in air , and only wait the wind : Let me , O let me , ere the tempest roar , Catch the first gale , and make the nearest shore ; In sacred silence join th' inglorious train , Where humble peace , and sweet contentment reign ; If not thy precepts , thy example own , And steal thro' life not useless , tho' unknown .