Classic Poem

ODE XLVII

1

Be not too Zealous; I ere this have seene
A Pangue as hot, a votarie as keene,
Dye, in its height of Flame;
Where everie word, has beene
A Panegericke; all Addresses came
To Celebrate the Glorie, of one name.

2

A Quill, inspired with noe vulgar heat,
Made great in Numbers, in his ayme more great;
Supported in his choice;
And honored to meete
Acceptance in a Patron; now in noyse
Of the litigious Rout, has lost his voice.

3

His Zeale is now noe more; his frequent vowes
Are all forgott; the honour of his browes,
His Laurel, withered;
His Quill, perfidious,
Dabbles in common Cisternes; ruined
To his first vertue, calls backe what he sed:

4

And runs a madding, with the vulgar Crew;
Retracting his old Principles for new
And undetermin'd things.
Poor man! I sett to veiwe
Thy common frailties in his waverings.
Be calme; for Passion tires, on her owne wings,

5

And falls in Dirt; a Spectacle of Scorne
To other men. Be constant; but not borne
With a blind violence,
To stand, noe more then turne,
To the Suggestions of imperfect Sence.
Who builds on Sands, has noe safe residence.