What would you have me do?
Search out some powerful patronage, and be
Like crawling ivy clinging to a tree?
No thank you.
Dedicate, like all the others,
Verses to plutocrats, while caution smothers
Whatever might offend my lord and master?
No thank you.
Kneel until my knee-caps fester,
Bend my back until I crack my spine,
And scratch another’s back if he’ll scratch mine?
No thank you.
Dining out to curry favour,
Meeting the influential till I slaver,
Suiting my style to what the critics want
With slavish copy of the latest can’t?
No thanks!
Ready to jump through any hoop
To be the great man of a little group?
Be blown off course, with madrigals for sails,
By the old women sighing through their veils?
Labouring to write a line of such good breeding
Its only fault is that it’s not worth reading?
To ingratiate myself, abject with fear,
And fawn and flatter to avoid a sneer?
No thanks, no thanks, no thanks!
But just to sing,
Dream, laugh, and take my tilt of wing,
To cock a snook whenever I shall choose,
To fight for yes and no, come win or lose,
To travel without thought of fame or fortune
Wherever I care to go to under the moon!
Never to write a line that hasn’t come
Directly from my heart: and so, with some
Modesty, to tell myself: My boy,
Be satisfied with a flower, a fruit, the joy
Of a single leaf, so long as it was grown
In your own garden. Then, if success is won
By any chance, you have nothing to render to
A hollow Caesar: the merit belongs to you.
In short, I won’t be a parasite; I’ll be
My own intention, stand alone and free,
And suit my voice to what my own eyes see!
— Edmond Rostand
