Summary

Anonymous,  Poeta de Tristibus; Or, The Poet's Complaint

“ Unless some who are Poets too.
They thrive by Rapine and Revenge,
And making Enemies of Friends:
Feeding on others hopes and fears,
On Orphants groans, and Widows tears.
In short, the World it self; and all
We Trade, and Art, and Science call,
Are grand Impostures; false and vain,
Invented but to bring in gain.
Astronomy does our Faith engage,
And with dark Notions cheats the Age:
But take off its Disguise, you'll see
It is as feign'd as Poetry.
Else let it for a certain show
Whether this Globe has Wings or no,
Or Ovid blame, who said, the Sun
Did run away with Phaëton.
”
Source: Gutenberg

Anonymous,  Poeta de Tristibus; Or, The Poet's Complaint

“ POEM.
The First CANTO.
Since here I'm bandy'd up and down
By the keen blows of Fortunes frown,
Whil'st Art and Nature vainly strive
To make th' unhappy Poet live;
I'le fly such Native Plagues as these
For Refuge, to the calmer Seas:
And try if boading Stars dispence
Ev'ry where the same influence.
Climes vary Constitutions, so
[Pg 2] Why may not they change Fortunes too?
Through th' habitable World I'le go,
And if that fails, I'le search for new.
Wit somewhere has a happy Reign,
Or Nature gives us Thoughts in vain.
”
Source: Gutenberg

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