Deare朋友。我听说这个镇有许多精明的批评家，发现了他们的缺点，用最近(在《狂怒的诗》中)给予的东西，扔给了沉闷的时代;但是(他们多么嫉妒，他们会怒火中烧，把我的额头向罗柏，向应得的海湾致敬)至少我应该感谢他们，因为他们通过我分享了你的诗歌;这就是全部，我要为自己辩护，我从你的言辞中得到一句话，我很乐意给英国王子写信。我不是那种自以为有灵感的人，写作时也不抱着被人欣赏的虚荣;但有一条规矩(我已经试了很长时间了)，我小心翼翼地避免，所有的自我否定。有人的欲望和幻想引导着我(蔑视名声)，我勇敢地踏着这条路;如果把我认为是无用的东西，暴露给我亲爱的自己，我就会得到一种快乐，那就无所谓审查批评的烦恼了。凡是我的缪斯女神不喜欢的人，也同样愤愤不平，同我的人生作对，哪怕是最微不足道的快乐，我也不会忘记，哪怕是人们所能给予的一切赞美。如果我是想讨上天的欢心，那就改我的风度，而不是改我的笔调; The first's unnaturall, therefore unfit, And for the Second, I despair of it, Since Grace, is not soe hard to get as Witt. Perhaps ill Verses, ought to be confin'd, In meere good Breeding, like unsav'ry Wind; Were Reading forc'd, I shou'd be apt to thinke Men might noe more write scurvily, than stinke: But 'tis your choyce, whether you'll Read, or noe, If likewise of your smelling it were soe, I'd Fart just as I write, for my owne ease, Nor shou'd you be concern'd, unlesse you please: I'll owne, that you write better than I doe, But I have as much need to write, as you. What though the Excrement of my dull Braine, Runns in a harsh, insipid Straine, Whilst your rich Head, eases it self of Witt? Must none but Civet-Catts, have leave to shit? In all I write, shou'd Sense, and Witt, and Rhyme Faile me at once, yet something soe Sublime, Shall stamp my Poem, that the World may see, It cou'd have beene produc'd, by none but me. And that's my end, for Man, can wish noe more, Then soe to write, as none ere writ before. Yet why am I noe Poet, of the tymes? I have Allusions, Similies and Rhymes, And Witt, or else 'tis hard that I alone, Of the whole Race of Mankind, shou'd have none. Unequally, the Partiall Hand of Heav'n, Has all but this one only Blessing giv'n; The World appeares like a great Family, Whose Lord opprest with Pride, and Poverty, (That to a few, great Plenty he may show) Is faine to starve the Num'rous Traine below: Just soe seemes Providence, as poor and vaine, Keeping more Creatures, than it can maintaine. Here 'tis profuse, and there it meanly saves, And for One Prince, it makes Ten Thousand Slaves: In Witt alone, it has beene Magnificent, Of which, soe just a share, to each is sent That the most Avaricious are content. For none e're thought, (the due Division's such), His owne too little, or his Friends too much. Yet most Men shew, or find great want of Witt, Writeing themselves, or Judging what is writ: But I, who am of sprightly Vigour full Looke on Mankind, as Envious, and dull. Borne to my self, my self I like alone, And must conclude my Judgment good, or none. (For shou'd my Sense be nought, how cou'd I know, Whether another Man's, were good, or noe?) Thus, I resolve of my owne Poetry, That 'tis the best, and there's a Fame for me. If then I'm happy, what does it advance, Whether to merit due, or Arrogance? Oh! but the World will take offence thereby, Why then the World, shall suffer for't, not I. Did e're this sawcy World, and I agree? To let it have its Beastly will on me? Why shou'd my Prostituted Sense, be drawne, To ev'ry Rule, their musty Customes spawne? But Men, will Censure you; Tis Two to one When e're they Censure, they'll be in the wrong. There's not a thing on Earth, that I can name Soe foolish, and soe false, as Common Fame. It calls the Courtier Knave, the plaine Man rude, Haughty the grave, and the delightfull Lewd. Impertinent the briske, Morosse the sad, Meane the Familiar, the Reserv'd one Mad. Poor helplesse Woman, is not favour'd more She's a slye Hipocryte, or Publique Whore. Then who the Devill, wou'd give this -- to be free From th'Innocent Reproach of Infamy? These things consider'd, make me (in despight Of idle Rumour,) keepe at home, and write.