With thy small stock, why are thou vent'ring still, At this so subtle sport: and play'st so ill? Think'st thou it is mere fortune, that can win? Or thy rank setting? That thou dar'st put in Thy all, at all: and whatsoe'er I do, Art still at that, and think'st to blow me up too? I cannot for the stage a drama lay, Tragic, or comic; but thou writ'st the play. I leave thee there, and giving way, intend An epic poem; thou hast the same end. I modestly quit that, and think to write, Next morn, an ode: thou mak'st a song ere night. I pass to elegies; thou meet'st me there: To satires; and thou dost pursue me. Where, Where shall I 'scape thee? In an epigram? O (thou cry'st out) that is thy proper game. Troth, if it be, I pity thy ill luck; That both for wit, and sense, so oft dost pluck, And never art encountered, I confess: Nor scarce dost colour for it, which is less. Prithee, yet save thy rest; give o'er in time: There's no vexation, that can make thee prime. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GROWING OLD by FRANCIS LEDWIDGE TWILIGHT AT THE HEIGHTS by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER THE HOUND OF HEAVEN by FRANCIS THOMPSON A CHURCHYARD SOLILOQUY by HENRY ALFORD THE STRANGER by LAWRENCE ALMA-TADEMA THE VIOLINIST by MARGARET STEELE ANDERSON VERSES, OCCASIONED BY AN AFFECTING INSTANCE OF SUDDEN DEATH by BERNARD BARTON |