The works of Mr. Thomas Brown Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings |
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To the Mirrour of British Knighthood, the worthy
Author of the Satyr against Wit: Occasion'd by the Hemistick, Pag. 8.
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The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | ||
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To the Mirrour of British Knighthood, the worthy Author of the Satyr against Wit: Occasion'd by the Hemistick, Pag. 8.
By Richard Steel, Esq;
—Heav'ns guard poor A***n.
Must I then passive stand? and can I hear
The Man I love, abus'd, and yet forbear?
Yet much I thank thy Favour to my Friend,
'Twas some Remorse thou did'st not him commend.
Thou do'st not all my Indignation raise;
For I prefer thy Pity, to thy Praise.
In vain thou would'st thy Name, dull Pedant hide;
There's not a Line but smells of thy Cheapside.
If Cæsar's Bounty for your Trash you've shar'd,
You are not the first Assassine he has spar'd.
His Mercy, not his Justice, made thee Knight,
Which P*rt*r may demand with equal Right.
The Man I love, abus'd, and yet forbear?
Yet much I thank thy Favour to my Friend,
'Twas some Remorse thou did'st not him commend.
Thou do'st not all my Indignation raise;
For I prefer thy Pity, to thy Praise.
In vain thou would'st thy Name, dull Pedant hide;
There's not a Line but smells of thy Cheapside.
If Cæsar's Bounty for your Trash you've shar'd,
You are not the first Assassine he has spar'd.
His Mercy, not his Justice, made thee Knight,
Which P*rt*r may demand with equal Right.
Well may'st thou think an useless Talent Wit;
Thou, who without it, ha'st three Poems writ:
Impenitrably dull, secure thou'rt found,
And can'st receive no more, than give a Wound:
Then scorn'd by all, to some dark Corner fly,
And in Lethargick Trance, expiring lie,
'Till thou from injur'd G**rth thy Cure receive,
And S**d only Absolution give.
Thou, who without it, ha'st three Poems writ:
Impenitrably dull, secure thou'rt found,
And can'st receive no more, than give a Wound:
Then scorn'd by all, to some dark Corner fly,
And in Lethargick Trance, expiring lie,
'Till thou from injur'd G**rth thy Cure receive,
And S**d only Absolution give.
The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | ||