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george rylands - epistle to dr. arbuthnot (lines 1 - 26) كلمات أغنية

shut, shut the door, good john! fatigu’d, i said
tie up the knocker, say i’m sick, i’m dead
the dog_star rages! nay ’tis past a doubt
all bedlam, or parnassus, is let out:
fire in each eye, and papers in each hand
they rave, recite, and madden round the land

what walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
they pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide;
by land, by water, they renew the charge;
they stop the chariot, and they board the barge
no place is sacred, not the church is free;
ev’n sunday shines no sabbath_day to me:
then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme
happy! to catch me just at dinner_time

is there a parson, much bemus’d in beer
a maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer
a clerk, foredoom’d his father’s soul to cross
who pens a stanza, when he should engross?
is there, who, lock’d from ink and paper, scrawls
with desp’rate charcoal round his darken’d walls?
all fly to twit’nam, and in humble strain
apply to me, to keep them mad or vain
arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws
imputes to me and my d_mn’d works the cause:
poor cornus sees his frantic wife elope
and curses wit, and poetry, and pope

- george rylands

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