Şiir 1
She first; "Must love for ever tune thy voice,
Fond idle bard, and trifling in thy choice
Thy wanton songs employ the drunkard's tongue,
In ev'ry street thy ribald lays are sung;
The finger marks thee in thy passing by,
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'Behold, where goes the slave of love,' they cry.
Thy lewd exploits, thou profligate, are grown
The public theme, and talk of all the town;
Whilst unconcern'd, and lost to sense of shame,
Thou still runn'st on nor mind'st thy ruin'd fame.
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Enough thou'st told the plaints of fond desire,
Now let a nobler inspiration fire;
Thy matter cramps thy genius, learn to find
A manly subject, and exert thy mind.
In songs for girls, fond toys, and idle play,
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Thy muse has wanton'd all her hours away.
But youth at length has fill'd its measure up;
My friend, 'tis time to taste of t'other cup.
Now in my service let thy force be shown,
Assert my honour, and retrieve thy own;
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