Analysis of Satyr I. A Letter To A Friend. On Poets.
Thomas Parnell 1679 (Dublin) – 1718
Poets are bound by ye severest rules,
the great ones must be mad, ye little all are fools,
thus wn. I rime 'tis at my own expence,
to please my friend, I drop my claim to sence.
but now ye greater sway wch custome bears,
to forfeit souls in oaths, or sence in verse?
the using of an ill has so much power,
stamp it a fashion, & its ill no more.
since then ye humour so extremely reigns,
that ye gay folly every brest unbends,
let me beneath ye common shadow hide
the fault's not mine thats all ye worlds beside.
say then if passion, discontent, or ease
sho'd e're your friend wth poetry possess,
for these, and want, ye muses setters seeme,
to draw in cullies to their loosing game,
how may I know yepath I ought to tread,
for 'tis in all mens natures to succeed
some one way more than any else beside.
fancy the reigning planet of yer. mind
guides poets, & like her they're unconfin'd;
a bounded genius will attempt to prove,
the stings of satyr, & ye flames of love,
Jear folly, virtue by example praise,
& move our passions & or. language raise
happy one way but one he'l scorn to chuse
so much or. wilder hopes our parts abuse.
Durfy more luckily employs his quill
weak as he is he knows his talent still.
Wn C---r taught how plays debaucht ye age
he left to V---ke to defend the stage,
in rufull ballad humbly pleas'd to rage.
how great & undisturb'd by censuring foes
might eithers fame beneath thier wreaths repose
had B---l nere written verse nor C---ve prose.
B---r in Epicks may be still inspir'd,
by men of sence approv'd by all ye rest admir'd
let him of Williams thickned lawrells sing
while for himself from every page they spring
& that shall crowne ye poet wch adorns ye King
but nere to tread in scandalls rougher ways
again depart ye peacefull realms of praise.
we read his satyr & his wit allow,
we read & own the blended malice too.
but oft his muse shows an unpointed tooth
Wn. a just turn of verse don't raise ye illnaturd truth
low puns for wit his lines do often fill
& oft he rambles in too loose a stile;
the biting satyr fights in closer file.
laborious T---te has many methods try'd,
to know wt. happy way he may succeed,
A play or two employ'd his hopes at first,
far from ye best, a little from ye worst,
then bits of foreign poets to or. tongue,
more happily he brought, more sweetly sung,
flush'd with success, he rises up from hence,
to rescue David at his own expence.
so have I known some painters wn. a face
in spight of all their touches wants to please
turn up its eys & alter all its dress
the auction piece a flowing glory wears,
& where the syren fail'd; ye saint appears.
Now I, who proudly authors thus arraign,
am, may be, envious thought, & may be vain,
but if my lines can gain one friends esteem,
or my diversion be, 'tis all my aim,
I never bid perhaps nere shall for fame.
Nay sho'd I find my censures too severe,
Ide in my changing prove my temper fair,
and see with joy an error disappear;
let Dennis rules for writing well lay downe,
believe wt he prescribes his play has done,
a preface write to shew he dos not faile,
Till Hypers to himself ye fop reveale.
Scheme | Text too long |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 1011110101 011111110111 111111111 1111111111 111101111 1101011101 01011111110 110101111 111110101 1111010011 110111011 0111111101 1111000111 11111110001 1101110101 110111101 111111111 1101110101 1111110101 1001010111 11010101 0101010111 01111111 1101010101 110101101 10111111111 11110110101 111000111 1111111101 111111111 1111110101 011010111 1101111 1110110101 11111011111 1101111010 1111011111010 11110111 11011100111 11111010111 111101101 010111111 11111101 111010101 11111111 10111111111 1111111101 11101101 010110101 010011110101 1111011101 0111011111 1111010111 1111010111 1100111101 1101110111 110101111 1111110101 0111110111 111110111 0101010101 10111101 1111010101 1111001111 1111111101 1101011111 1101011111 111111101 1011011101 011111001 1101110111 0111011111 0101111111 11101111 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 3,047 |
Words | 597 |
Sentences | 25 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 74 |
Lines Amount | 74 |
Letters per line (avg) | 32 |
Words per line (avg) | 8 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 2,384 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 595 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 3:04 min read
- 125 Views
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"Satyr I. A Letter To A Friend. On Poets." Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 12 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/37060/satyr-i.--a-letter-to-a-friend.-on-poets.>.
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