Page:Poetical Works of John Oldham.djvu/242

232 To mould with Silvester, and Shirley there, And truck for pots of ale next Stourbridge fair, Then who'd not laugh to see the immortal name To vile Mundungus made a martyr flame? And all thy deathless monuments of wit, Wipe porters’ tails, or mount in paper kite? ’But, grant thy poetry should find success, And, which is rare, the squeamish critics please; Admit it read, and praised, and courted be By this nice age, and all posterity; If thou expectest aught but empty fame, Condemn thy hopes and labours to the flame. The rich have now learned only to admire; He, who to greater favours does aspire, Is mercenary thought, and writes for hire. Wouldst thou to raise thine, and thy country's fame, Choose some old English hero for thy theme, Bold Arthur, or great Edward's greater son, Or our fifth Harry, matchless in renown; Make Agincourt and Cressy fields outvie The famed Lavinian shores, and walls of Troy; What Scipio, what Maecenas wouldst thou find, What Sidney now to thy great project kind? 'Bless me! how great his genius! how each line Is big with sense! how glorious a design Does through the whole, and each proportion shine! How lofty all his thoughts, and how inspired! Pity, such wondrous thoughts are not preferred;’ Cries a gay wealthy sot, who would not bail, For bare five pounds, the author out of jail, Should he starve there, and rot; who, if a brief Came out the needy poets to relieve, To the whole tribe would scarce a tester give.