Page:Poetical Works of John Oldham.djvu/84

74 O'errun with filthy poetry and rhyme, The present reigning evil of the time, I lacked, and (well I did myself assure) From your kind hand I should receive a cure: When, lo! instead of healing remedies, You cherish, and encourage the disease: Inhuman, you help the distemper on, Which was before but too inveterate grown: As a kind looker on, who interest shares, Though not in's stake, yet in his hopes and fears, Would to his friend a pushing gamester do, Recall his elbow when he hastes to throw; Such a wise course you should have took with me, A rash and venturing fool in poetry. Poets are cullies, whom rook fame draws in, And wheedles with deluding hopes to win: But, when they hit, and most successful are, They scarce come off with a bare saving share. Oft, I remember, did wise friends dissuade, And bid me quit the trifling barren trade; Oft have I tried, Heaven knows! to mortify This vile and wicked lust of poetry; But still unconquered it remains within, Fixed as a habit, or some darling sin. In vain I better studies there would sow, Often I've tried, but none will thrive or grow: All my best thoughts, when I'd most serious be, Are never from its foul infection free: Nay, God forgive me! when I say my prayers, I scarce can help polluting them with verse: That fabulous wretch of old reversed I seem, Who turn whate'er I touch to dross and rhyme. {(rule|15em}}