Satyr
against
the
Muses
.
By
my
abandon'd
Muse
,
I'm
not
inspir'd
,
Provok'd
by
Malice
,
and
with
Rage
I'm
fir'd
.
Fly
,
fly
,
my
Muse
from
my
distracted
Breast
,
Who
e'er
has
thee
,
must
be
with
Plagues
possest
:
Fool
that
I
was
,
e'er
to
sollicite
you
,
Who
make
not
only
Poor
,
but
wretched
too
.
Happy
I
liv'd
,
for
almost
Eight
years
time
,
Curss'd
be
your
Skill
,
you
taught
me
then
to
Rhime
:
The
Jingling
noise
,
shed
its
dark
Influence
,
On
my
then
pleased
,
unwary
Innocence
,
I
scarce
have
had
one
happy
Moment
since
.
Here
all
the
Spite
and
Rage
of
Womankind
,
Cannot
enough
advance
my
threatning
Mind
,
Let
Furies
too
,
be
in
the
Consort
join'd
.
Passion
,
that
common
Rage
,
I
here
refuse
,
Call
Hell
itself
,
to
curse
my
Torturing
Muse
;
Not
the
calm
Author
of
blest
Poetry
,
But
the
black
Succubus
of
Misery
:
There
let
her
sit
,
with
her
Infernal
Chyme
,
And
put
the
Shrieks
and
Groans
of
Fiends
in
Rhime
.
May
their
Parnassus
,
like
Vesuvius
burn
,
Their
Laurels
wither
,
or
to
Cypriss
turn
;
May
Stuff
like
Hopkin's
Rhyme
,
degrade
their
Fame
,
And
none
but
Ballad-makers
use
their
Name
:
May
they
despis'd
,
sad
and
neglected
sit
,
Be
never
thought
upon
by
Men
of
Wit
.
May
all
the
Ills
a
fond
Imperious
Dame
,
Wishes
the
Man
that
dare
reject
her
Flame
,
Light
upon
him
,
that
does
commit
the
Crime
,
Of
writing
any
thing
,
in
jingling
Rhime
;
Nothing
like
that
,
to
Dangers
can
expose
,
May
none
be
Happy
,
but
what
write
in
Prose
.
Curse
on
the
Whimsical
,
Romanick
Fool
,
That
yielded
first
,
to
his
Phantastick
Rule
;
That
Wit
like
Morris-dancers
must-advance
,
With
Bells
at
Feet
,
and
in
nice
measures
Dance
.
Let
pregnant
Heads
,
but
think
of
Poetry
,
And
just
before
the
Brain-delivery
;
Fancy
shall
make
a
Prodigy
of
Wit
,
Which
soon
,
as
born
,
shall
run
upon
its
Feet
:
Sure
,
'tis
some
Necromantick
Ordinance
,
That
Sence
,
beyond
the
Circle
mayn't
advance
;
Was
all
the
learned
Ancients
Courage
dead
,
That
Wit
,
in
Fetters
,
is
tame
Captive
led
?
Had
Some
oppos'd
,
when
Rhyme
at
first
grew
bold
,
Then
her
Defeat
,
not
Triumphs
had
been
told
?
But
now
the
Plague
is
grown
so
populous
,
'Tis
hard
to
stop
the
universal
Curse
.
Doubtless
,
they
are
mistaken
who
have
told
Spightful
Pandora's
pregnant
Box
did
hold
Plurality
of
Plagues
,
She
only
hurl'd
Out
Verse
alone
,
and
that
has
damn'd
the
World
.
Curses
,
in
vain
,
on
Poets
I
bestow
;
I'm
sure
,
the
greatest
is
,
that
they
are
so
;
Fate
,
send
worse
if
thou
can'st
,
but
Rescue
me
From
trifling
torturing
wretched
Poetry
.