What Wars would my_ Pierian _Trumpet blow,
If, as_ Augustus _now again did live,
So_ Rome _to me would a_ Mecænas _give._

The ingenious Mr. _Oldham_, the glory of our late Age, in one of his
Satyrs, makes the renowned _Spenser_'s Ghost thus speak to him,
disswading him from the Study of Poetry.

_Chuse some old_ English _Hero for thy Theme,
Bold_ Arthur, _or great_ Edward_'s greater Son,
Or our fifth_ Henry, _matchless to renown;
Make_ Agin-Court, _and_ Crescy_-fields out-vie
The fam'd_ Laucinan_-shores, and walls of_ Troy;
_What_ Scipio, _what_ Mæcenas _wouldst thou find;
What_ Sidney _now to thy great project kind?_
Bless me! how great a _Genius_! how each Line
Is big with Sense! how glorious a design
Does through the whole, and each proportion shine!

How lofty all his Thoughts, and how inspir'd!
Pity, such wondrous Parts are not preferr'd:
_Cry a gay wealthy Sot, who would not bail,
For bare Five Pounds the Author out of Jail,
Should he starve there and rot; who, if a Brief
Came out the needy Poets to relieve,
To the whole Tribe would scarce a Tester give._

But some will say, it is not so much the _Patrons_ as the _Poets_
fault, whose wide Mouths speak nothing but Bladders and Bumbast,
treating only of trifles, the Muses Haberdashers of small wares.