Читать книгу William Wycherley [Four Plays] - William Wycherley - Страница 7

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Custom, which bids the thief from cart harangue

All those that come to make and see him hang,

Wills the damned poet (though he knows he's gone)

To greet you ere his execution.

Not having fear of critic 'fore his eyes,

But still rejecting wholesome, good advice,

He e'en is come to suffer here to-day

For counterfeiting (as you judge) a play,

Which is against dread Phœbus highest treason;

Damn, damning judges, therefore, you have reason:—

You he does mean who, for the selfsame fault,

That damning privilege of yours have bought.

So the huge bankers, when they needs must fail,

Send the small brothers of their trade to jail;

Whilst they, by breaking, gentlemen are made,

Then, more than any, scorn poor men o' the trade.

You hardened renegado poets, who

Treat rhyming poets worse than Turk would do,

But vent your heathenish rage, hang, draw, and quarter;

His Muse will die to-day a fleering martyr;

Since for bald jest, dull libel, or lampoon,

There are who suffer persecution

With the undaunted briskness of buffoon,

And strict professors live of raillery,

Defying porter's-lodge, or pillory.

For those who yet write on our poet's fate,

Should as co-sufferers commiserate:

But he in vain their pity now would crave,

Who for themselves, alas! no pity have,

And their own gasping credit will not save;

And those, much less, our criminal would spare,

Who ne'er in rhyme transgress;—if such there are.

Well then, who nothing hopes, need nothing fear:

And he, before your cruel votes shall do it,

By his despair declares himself no poet.