ΑΝ APOLOGY FOR WRITING. Ει μεν περι καινε τινος πραγματος πρετιθετο λεγεινή επισχων αν έως οι πλειςοι των ειωθοτων γνώμην απεφήναντο ει μεν ηρεσκε τι μοι των ύπο τέτων ρηθέντων ήσυχίαν αν ηγον ει δε μη, τοτ' αν και αυτός επειρωμων & γινωσκω λεγειν επειδαν δε περι ὧν πολλάκις ειρηκασιν έτοι πρότερον, συμά βαίνει και γινι σκοπείν, ηγέμαι και πρώτος ανασας, εικοτως αν συγγνωμης τυγχάνειν. DEMOSTH. PHIL. I. AN APOLOGY FOR WRITING. F. WHAT! can you think the world will read your lays, Or, if it reads them, e'er accord its praise? Unread at best, p'rhaps line a trunk with Pye, A. Nay, spare your censures. If the town can bear Pratt's dogs, that mourn with lank dishevelled hair,a a If any one wishes to know how a dog may dip his morsel in vinegar! let him consult Mr. Pratt, who, if any thing can do it, will make him exclaim, "By day and night, but this is wonderous strange!" Cats, and canary-birds, and tales of woe, F. Why, 'faith, 'tis doubtful. A. I may trust, I think, The known omnipotence of jetty ink; And now since honest folks, when books they buy, On wire-wove foolscap, or bright crown, shall shine; a a See (if you have five guineas to throw away) " The Sovereign," a poem, by Charles Small Pybus, Esquire, M. P. and one of the lords commissioners of the treasury, in which our gracious sovereign is compared to his late imperial and ever-memorable majesty Paul. Pybus, whom jealous indignation fired, When first he marked how every art conspired To deck our honoured Shakspeare's matchless page: But soon to emulation turned his rage, And "Yes," he cried, "the Alderman shall see a "That I can be magnificent as he: "Superb my book shall blaze before the town, "And Shakspeare's self shall yield to me the crown." F. Nay, if you're willing to quit all pretence To judgment, reason, and to common sense; If you are pleased your verses should be seen Mixt with ænigmas on a medley skreen; If this suffices, and you think this fame, Write on, and welcome, write, in Folly's name. A. "Tis true I am not one whose fertile brain, With bare six weeks' gestation, without pain, Drops a mis-shapen mass, half verse, half prose,b To blot his country's name, to laud her foes; a The Alderman"....Boydell. b Bienheureux Scuderi! dont la fertile plume Peut tous les mois sans piene enfanter un volume! BOILEAU, SAT. 11. B |