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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