By running goods these graceless owlers gain; Theirs are the rules of France, the plots of Spain: But wit, like wine, from happier climates brought, Dash'd by these rogues, turns English common draught. They pall Moliere's and Lopez' sprightly strain, And teach dull Harlequins to grin in vain. How shall our author hope a gentler fate, To fetch his fools and knaves from foreign climes. Let him hiss loud, to show you all he's hit. A common blessing! now 'tis yours, now mine. To keep this cap for such as will, to wear. Of course resign'd it to the next that writ) * Shows a cap with ears. Flings down the cap, and exit. SANDY'S GHOST; OR, A PROPER NEW BALLAD ON THE NEW OVID'S METAMORPHOSES: AS IT WAS INtended to be translated by persons of QUALITY. [SIR SAMUEL GARTH, who published the Metamorphoses of Ovid, translated by "Dryden, Addison, Garth, Mainwaring, Congreve, Rowe, Pope, Gay, Eusden, Croxal, and other eminent hands," had himself no other share in the undertaking, than engaging the various translators in their task, and putting their labours into some order. The work was intended to supersede the ancient translation. George Sandys, the old translator, (whose ghost is introduced in the verses,) was a man of great accomplishment, and pronounced by Dryden to be the best versifier of his age. The curious reader will find many particulars respecting him, and his translation of Ovid, in the Censura Literaria, volumes 4th, 5th, and 6th. He died in 1643.] Sir Walter Scott. YE Lords and Commons, men of wit And pleasure about town, Read this, ere you translate one bit Of books of high renown. Beware of Latin authors all, Nor think your verses sterling, Though with a golden pen you scrawl, And scribble in a Berlin: For not the desk with silver nails, Nor standish well japann'd, avails Hear how a ghost in dead of night, Rare imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth! Ah! why did he write poetry, A desk he had of curious work, Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought, Forth popp'd the sprite so thin, And from the keyhole bolted out, All upright as a pin. With whiskers, band, and pantaloon, This 'squire he dropp'd his pen full soon, Ho! master Sam, quoth Sandy's sprite, I hear the beat of Jacob's * drums, Then lords and lordlings, 'squires and knights, Beats up for volunteers. What Fenton will not do, nor Gay, If justice Philips' costive head They shall like Persian tales be read, * Old Jacob Tonson, the editor of the Metamorphoses. + Pembroke, probably. Let Warwick's Muse with Ash--t join, And Pope translate with Jervas. L- himself, that lively lord, Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen; I pray, where can the hurt lie? Since you have brains as well as men, As witness Lady Wortley. Now, Tonson, list thy forces all, Review them and tell noses : For to poor Ovid shall befal A strange metamorphosis; A metamorphosis more strange Than all his books can vapour— "To what (quoth 'squire) shall Ovid change?” Quoth Sandys, "To waste paper." |