THE times are swoll'n so big with nicer wits, That nought sounds good but what Opinion strikes Censure with Judgment seld together sits; And now the man more than the matter likes. The great rewardress of a poet's pen, Fame, is by those so clogg'd she seldom flies; The Muses sitting on the graves of men, Singing that Virtue lives and never dies, Are chas'd away by the malignant tongues Of such, by whom Detraction is ador'd: Hence grows the want of ever-living songs, With which our isle was whilom bravely stor'd. If such a basilisk dart down his eye (Impoison'd with the dregs of utmost hate), To kill the first blooms of my poesy, It is his worst, and makes me fortunate. Kind wits I vail to, but to fools precise I am as confident as they are nice. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HEALALL by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS HOW TO KNOW LOVE FROM DECEIT by WILLIAM BLAKE |