2. To His Muse
Whither, mad maiden, wilt thou roam?Far safer ‘twere to stay at home;Where thou mayst sit, and piping, pleaseThe poor and private cottages.Since cotes and hamlets best agreeWith this thy meaner minstrelsy.There with the reed thou mayst expressThe shepherd’s fleecy happiness;And with thy Eclogues intermix:Some smooth and harmless Bucolics.There, on a hillock, thou mayst singUnto a handsome shepherdling;Or to a girl, that keeps the neat,With breath more sweet than violet.There, there, perhaps such lines as theseMay take the simple villages;But for the court, the country witIs despicable unto it.Stay then at home, and do not goOr fly abroad to seek for woe;Contempts in courts and cities dwellNo critic haunts the poor man’s cell,Where thou mayst hear thine own lines readBy no one tongue there censured.That man’s unwise will search for ill,And may prevent it, sitting still.