Satyr against the Muses. Sarah Fyge Egerton 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. T125148 Egerton, Sarah Fyge, 1668-1723. Poems on Several Occasions, Together with a Pastoral. By Mrs. S. F. [poems only] London printed, and are to be sold by J. Nutt, near Stationers-Hall 1703 pp. 14-16. [20],117,[3],15,[1]p.; 8⁰.

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Satyr against the Muses . By my abandon'd Muse , I'm not inspir'd , Provok'd by Malice , and with Rage I'm fir'd . Fly , fly , my Muse from my distracted Breast , Who e'er has thee , must be with Plagues possest : Fool that I was , e'er to sollicite you , Who make not only Poor , but wretched too . Happy I liv'd , for almost Eight years time , Curss'd be your Skill , you taught me then to Rhime : The Jingling noise , shed its dark Influence , On my then pleased , unwary Innocence , I scarce have had one happy Moment since . Here all the Spite and Rage of Womankind , Cannot enough advance my threatning Mind , Let Furies too , be in the Consort join'd . Passion , that common Rage , I here refuse , Call Hell itself , to curse my Torturing Muse ; Not the calm Author of blest Poetry , But the black Succubus of Misery : There let her sit , with her Infernal Chyme , And put the Shrieks and Groans of Fiends in Rhime . May their Parnassus , like Vesuvius burn , Their Laurels wither , or to Cypriss turn ; May Stuff like Hopkin's Rhyme , degrade their Fame , And none but Ballad-makers use their Name : May they despis'd , sad and neglected sit , Be never thought upon by Men of Wit . May all the Ills a fond Imperious Dame , Wishes the Man that dare reject her Flame , Light upon him , that does commit the Crime , Of writing any thing , in jingling Rhime ; Nothing like that , to Dangers can expose , May none be Happy , but what write in Prose . Curse on the Whimsical , Romanick Fool , That yielded first , to his Phantastick Rule ; That Wit like Morris-dancers must-advance , With Bells at Feet , and in nice measures Dance . Let pregnant Heads , but think of Poetry , And just before the Brain-delivery ; Fancy shall make a Prodigy of Wit , Which soon , as born , shall run upon its Feet : Sure , 'tis some Necromantick Ordinance , That Sence , beyond the Circle mayn't advance ; Was all the learned Ancients Courage dead , That Wit , in Fetters , is tame Captive led ? Had Some oppos'd , when Rhyme at first grew bold , Then her Defeat , not Triumphs had been told ? But now the Plague is grown so populous , 'Tis hard to stop the universal Curse . Doubtless , they are mistaken who have told Spightful Pandora's pregnant Box did hold Plurality of Plagues , She only hurl'd Out Verse alone , and that has damn'd the World . Curses , in vain , on Poets I bestow ; I'm sure , the greatest is , that they are so ; Fate , send worse if thou can'st , but Rescue me From trifling torturing wretched Poetry .