“我宁愿做一只小猫，叫新!”比这些同样有韵律的民谣贩子中的一个还要好——莎士比亚“我们有这么无耻的吟游诗人;然而这是真的，也有一些疯狂的、被抛弃的批评家。我还得听吗?——难道菲茨杰拉德会在酒馆的大厅里嘶哑地叫嚷他那吱吱作响的对联诗，而我不唱歌，恐怕苏格兰的评论会说我是一个乱写乱画的人，谴责我的缪斯?准备好押韵吧——无论对错，我都要发表:傻瓜是我的主题，让讽刺成为我的歌。啊，大自然最高贵的礼物——我的灰鹅毛笔!我思想的奴隶，服从我的意志，从你的母鸟身上扯下来，做成一支笔，这是小人的有力工具!钢笔!它注定会帮助那些为诗文而忙碌的头脑，尽管仙女会抛弃它，评论家会嘲笑它，情人的慰藉，作家的骄傲。 What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise! How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise! Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, With all the pages which 'twas thine to write. But thou, at least, mine own especial pen! Once laid aside, but now assumed again, Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be free; Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me: Then let us soar today, no common theme, No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream Inspires -- our path, though full of thorns, is plain; Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway, Obey'd by all who nought beside obey; When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime; When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, And weigh their justice in a golden scale; E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe, And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. Such is the force of wit! but not belong To me the arrows of satiric song; The royal vices of our age demand A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, And yield at least amusement in the race: Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame; The cry is up, and scribblers are my game. Speed, Pegasus! -- ye strains of great and small, Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all! I too can scrawl, and once upon a time I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme, A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame; I printed -- older children do the same. 'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; A book's a book, although there's nothing in't. Not that a title's sounding charm can save Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave: This Lambe must own, since his patrician name Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame. No matter, George continues still to write, Though now the name is veil'd from public sight. Moved by the great example, I pursue The self-same road, but make my own review: Not seek great Jeffrey's, yet, like him, will be Self-constituted judge of poesy. A man must serve his time to every trade Save censure -- critics all are ready made. Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote, With just enough of learning to misquote; A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault; A turn for punning, call it Attic salt; To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet, His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit; Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit; Care not for feeling -- pass you proper jest, And stand a critic, hated yet carress'd. And shall we own such judgment? no -- as soon Seek roses in December -- ice in June; Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; Believe a woman or an epitaph, Or any other thing that's false, before You trust in critics, who themselves are sore; Or yield one single thought to be misled By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian head. To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced, Combined usurpers on the throne of taste; To these, when authors bend in humble awe, And hail their voice as truth, their word as law -- While these are censors, 't would be sin to spare; While such are critics, why should I forebear? But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun: Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, Our bards and censors are so much alike. Then should you ask me, why I venture o'er The path which Pope and Gifford trod before; If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed; Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 'But hold!' exclaims a friend, 'here's come neglect: This -- that -- and t'other line seem incorrect.' What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got, And c