Poems Lyrique Macaronique Heroique &c. By Henry Bold |
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To the ingenious Mr. Henry Bold on his publishing his Poems.
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 | Poems Lyrique Macaronique Heroique |  |
To the ingenious Mr. Henry Bold on his publishing his Poems.
The
Press (of late) became as common
As Barbers-Chair or naughty Woman,
When all fanatique Humours were,
Frequently broach'd, as Ale or Beer:
But safe in neither, such a Crowd
Of Ale and History being allow'd;
A Fresh-man or an elder Brother
Was poyson'd straight by one or t'other.
Had these been extant then, th'ad thought
Thy Nectar of the common Draught,
Like those who little skill'd in Wine,
Applaud a Tavern for the Sign.
And hang their gross Opinions there
That Sack with Lime to them is rare:
Just as the Drunken Common Sewer
Does with an even throat devour
All that's sent to it, so did They
Erst swallow Books, a greedy way!
But 'twas as Mariott when he feasted,
Neither half chew'd nor half-digested.
As Barbers-Chair or naughty Woman,
When all fanatique Humours were,
Frequently broach'd, as Ale or Beer:
But safe in neither, such a Crowd
Of Ale and History being allow'd;
A Fresh-man or an elder Brother
Was poyson'd straight by one or t'other.
Had these been extant then, th'ad thought
Thy Nectar of the common Draught,
Like those who little skill'd in Wine,
Applaud a Tavern for the Sign.
And hang their gross Opinions there
That Sack with Lime to them is rare:
Just as the Drunken Common Sewer
Does with an even throat devour
All that's sent to it, so did They
Erst swallow Books, a greedy way!
But 'twas as Mariott when he feasted,
Neither half chew'd nor half-digested.
Kind Providence which thought that Fate
Unfit for thee, ordain'd thy date
From this blest Age grown now so clear
That 'stead of Glow-worms Stars appear,
And glorious too, but when all's done,
'Tis thou that art Apollo's Son.
But 'cause I Love, I write, and not to praise,
He must deserve, is fit to give thee Bayes.
Unfit for thee, ordain'd thy date
From this blest Age grown now so clear
That 'stead of Glow-worms Stars appear,
And glorious too, but when all's done,
'Tis thou that art Apollo's Son.
But 'cause I Love, I write, and not to praise,
He must deserve, is fit to give thee Bayes.
V. Oldis.
| Poems Lyrique Macaronique Heroique | |