Poems | ||
93
Mr. WRIGHTEN.
Oh, oh! my friend Wrighten, is he in the cluster?I soon can find him, by his bouncing and bluster;
Tho' he clips Common Sense, with a mouthful of plums,
By the aid of his wife he can butter his crums;
Not having the fear of remorse 'fore his eyes,
Poor Nature incessantly stabs till she dies;
And murders Heroics, and storms at their death;
Then runs round the stage—to recover his breath:
And, wonderful! growls, if he gets not applause;
Tho' he violates Reason, and treads on her laws.
Poems | ||