The midwife laid her hand on his thick skull, With this prophetic blessing — Be thou dull; 60 Drink, swear, and roar, forbear no lewd delight Fit for… - John Dryden

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The midwife laid her hand on his thick skull,
With this prophetic blessing — Be thou dull; 60
Drink, swear, and roar, forbear no lewd delight
Fit for thy bulk, do anything but write.
Thou art of lasting make, like thoughtless men,
A strong nativity — but for the pen;
Eat opium, mingle arsenic in thy drink, 65
Still thou mayest live, avoiding pen and ink.
I see, I see, ’tis counsel given in vain,
For treason, botched in rhyme, will be thy bane;
Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck,
’Tis fatal to thy fame and to thy neck.