Page:Poetical Works of John Oldham.djvu/88

78 Than to the conduct of my words, when they March in due ranks, are set in just array. Sometimes on wings of thought I seem on high, As men in sleep, though motionless they lie, Fledged by a dream, believe they mount and fly: So witches some enchanted wand bestride, And think they through the airy regions ride, Where fancy is both traveller, way, and guide: Then straight I grow a strange exalted thing, And equal in conceit at least a king: As the poor drunkard, when wine stums his brains, Anointed with that liquor, thinks he reigns. Bewitched by these delusions 'tis I write, (The tricks some pleasant devil plays in spite) And when I'm in the freakish trance, which I, Fond silly wretch, mistake for ecstasy, I find all former resolutions vain, And thus recant them, and make new again: 'What was't I rashly vowed? shall ever I Quit my belovèd mistress, poetry? Thou sweet beguiler of my lonely hours, Which thus glide unperceived with silent course; Thou gentle spell, which undisturbed dost keep My breast, and charm intruding care asleep; They say, thou'rt poor and unendowed; what though? For thee, I this vain, worthless world forego: Let wealth and honour be for fortune's slaves, The alms of fools, and prize of crafty knaves: To me thou art whate'er the ambitious crave, And all that greedy misers want, or have: In youth or age, in travel or at home, Here or in town, at London or at Rome, Rich or a beggar, free or in the Fleet, Whate'er my fate is, 'tis my fate to write.'