"Why,"says I,"this is a little nosegay of conceits,a very lump of salt:every verse has something in it that piques;and then the dart in the last line is certainly as pretty a sting in the tail of an epigram,for so I think you critics call it,as ever entered into the thought of a poet.""Dear Mr.Bickerstaff,"says he,shaking me by the hand,"everybody knows you to be a judge of these things;and,to tell you truly,I read over Roscommon's translation of Horace's 'Art of Poetry'three several times before I sat down to write the sonnet which I have shown you.But you shall hear it again,and pray observe every line of it;for not one of them shall pass without your approbation.
"'When dressed in laurel wreaths you shine,'
"That is,"says he,"when you have your garland on;when you are writing verses."To which I replied,"I know your meaning:a metaphor!""The same,"said he,and went on.
"'And tune your soft melodious notes,'
"Pray observe the gliding of that verse;there is scarce a consonant in it:I took care to make it run upon liquids.Give me your opinion of it.""Truly,"said I,"I think it as good as the former.""I am very glad to hear you say so,"says he;"but mind the next.
"'You seem a sister of the Nine,"That is,"says he,"you seem a sister of the Muses;for,if you look into ancient authors,you will find it was their opinion that there were nine of them.""I remember it very well,"said I;"but pray proceed.""'Or Phoebus'self in petticoats.'
"Phoebus,"says he,"was the god of Poetry.These little instances,Mr.Bickerstaff,show a gentleman's reading.Then to take off from the air of learning,which Phoebus and the Muses had given to this first stanza,you may observe,how it falls all of a sudden into the familiar;'in petticoats!'
"'Or Phoebus'self in petticoats.'"
"Let us now,"says I,"enter upon the second stanza;I find the first line is still a continuation of the metaphor.
"'I fancy when your song you sing.'"
"It is very right,"says he;"but pray observe the turn of words in those two lines.I was a whole hour in adjusting of them,and have still a doubt upon me whether in the second line it should be,'Your song you sing;or,You sing your song?'You shall hear them both:
"'I fancy,when your song you sing,Your song you sing with so much art,' or,"'I fancy,when your song you sing,You sing your song with so much art.'""Truly,"said I,"the turn is so natural either way,that you have made me almost giddy with it.""Dear sir,"said he,grasping me by the hand,"you have a great deal of patience;but pray what do you think of the next verse?
"'Your pen was plucked from Cupid's wing.'"
"Think!"says I;"I think you have made Cupid look like a little goose.""That was my meaning,"says he:"I think the ridicule is well enough hit off.But we come now to the last,which sums up the whole matter.
"'For,ah!it wounds me like his dart.'
"Pray how do you like that Ah!doth it not make a pretty figure in that place?Ah!--it looks as if I felt the dart,and cried out at being pricked with it.
"'For,ah!it wounds me like his dart.'
"My friend Dick Easy,"continued he,"assured me,he would rather have written that Ah!than to have been the author of the AEneid.
He indeed objected,that I made Mira's pen like a quill in one of the lines,and like a dart in the other.But as to that--""Oh!as to that,"says I,"it is but supposing Cupid to be like a porcupine,and his quills and darts will be the same thing."He was going to embrace me for the hint;but half a dozen critics coming into the room,whose faces he did not like,he conveyed the sonnet into his pocket,and whispered me in the ear,"he would show it me again as soon as his man had written it over fair."
