SANDYS" GHOST, OR, A PROPER NEW BALLAD ON THE NEW OVID'S METAMORPHOSES: AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF QUALITY.2 YE Lords and Commons, men of wit And pleasure about town, Beware of Latin authors, all, Nor think your verses sterling, For not the desk with silver nails, Nor bureau of expense, Nor standish well japann'd, avails To writing of good sense. 1 George Sandys, the old, and as yet unequalled, translator of Ovid's Metamorphoses. 2 A note prefixed to this poem in Roscoe's ed. of Pope's Works informs us that "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 fact is, Sir Samuel translated the whole of the 14th Book, and the story of Cippus in the 15th Book of the Metamorphoses. Hear how a ghost in dead of night, In woful wise did sore affright A wit and courtly squire: 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, All upright as a pin. With whiskers, band, and pantaloon, And ruff compos'd most duly, This 'squire he dropp'd his pen full soon, While as the light burnt bluely. Ho! master Sam, quoth Sandys' sprite, Write on, nor let me scare ye! Forsooth, if rhymes fall not in right, To Budgell seek or Carey. 8 I hear the beat of Jacob's drums, 4 See first the merry P― comes In haste without his garter. Then lords and lordlings, 'squires and knights, Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers: Garth at St. James's, and at White's, Beats up for volunteers. What Fenton will not do, nor Gay, Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan, If Justice Philips' costive head Let Warwick's Muse with Ash-t join, Tickell and Addison combine, And Pope translate with Jervas. L- himself, that lively lord, Who bows to every lady, Shall join with F— in one accord, And be like Tate and Brady. 8 Old Jacob Tonson, the publisher of the Metamorphoses. 4 Perhaps Pembroke. 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 befall A metamorphosis more strange Than all his books can vapour "To what (quoth 'squire) shall Ovid change?" Quoth Sandys, "To waste paper." UMBRA.1 CLOSE to the best known author Umbra sits, The constant index to old Button's wits. "Who's here?" cries Umbra. "Only Johnson." -"O! Your slave," and exit; but returns with Rowe. 1 Intended, it is said, for Ambrose Philips. But cries as soon, "Dear Dick, I must be gone, SYLVIA my SYLVIA, A FRAGMENT.1 heart in wondrous wise alarm'd, Aw'd without sense, and without beauty charm'd: But some odd graces and some flights she had, Was just not ugly, and was just not mad. Her tongue still ran on credit from her eyes, More pert than witty, more a wit than wise: Good-nature, she declar'd it, was her scorn, Though 'twas by that alone she could be borne. Affronting all, yet fond of a good name, A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame: Now coy, and studious in no point to fall, Now all agog for D- -y at a ball: Now deep in Taylor, and the Book of Martyrs, Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres. 1 Introduced, with some alterations, into the Second of the Moral Epistles, Of the Characters of Women. |