In Imitation Of Anacreon

By Matthew Prior

Let 'em Censure: what care I?

The Herd of Criticks I defie.

Let the Wretches know, I write

Regardless of their Grace, or Spight.

No, no: the Fair, the Gay, the Young

Govern the Numbers of my Song.

All that They approve is sweet:

And All is Sense, that They repeat.

Bid the warbling Nine retire:

Venus, String thy Servant's Lyre:

Love shall be my endless Theme:

Pleasure shall triumph over Fame:

And when these Maxims I decline,

Apollo, may Thy Fate be Mine:

May I grasp at empty Praise;

And lose the Nymph, to gain the Bays.