To a thrice illustrious Quack, Pedant, and Bard,
on his incomparable Poem, call'd, A Satyr against Wit.
By the Right Hon. the Countess of Sandwich.
Thou Fund of Nonsense, was it not enough,
That Cits and pious Ladies lik'd thy Stuff,
That as thou copy'dst Virgil, all might see,
Judicious Bell-men imitated thee:
That to thy Cadence, Sextons set their Chimes,
And Nurses, skimming Possets hum'd thy Rhimes.
But thou must needs fall foul on Men of Sense,
With Dulness equal to thy Impudence.
Are D**n, C*dr**n, G**th, V**k, B*le,
Those Names of Wonder, that adorn our Isle,
Fit Subjects for thy vile pedantick Pen?
Hence sawcy Usher, to thy Desk again.
Construe Dutch Notes, and pore upon Boys A---es,
But, prithee write no more heroick Farces.
Teach blooming Blockheads by thy own try'd Rules,
To give us Demonstration that they're Fools.
Let 'em by N---'s Sermon-Stile refine
Their English Prose, their Poetry by thine.
Let W*sl**y's Rhimes their Emulation raise,
And Ar**wk**r, instruct 'em how to praise.
That, when all Ages in this Truth agree,
They're finish'd Dunces, they may rival thee;
Thou only Strain to mighty William's Sword!
Old Jemmy never knighted such a T---d.
For the most nauseous Mixture God can make,
Is a dull Pedant, and a busie Quack.
