 | Trifles |  |
190
Thy censure yet: nor shou'd they 'scape thy hands.
These are the passionate; who in dispute,
Demand submission, monarchs absolute.
Sole judges, in their own conceit, of wit,
They damn all those for fools that won't submit.
Sir Testy (thwart sir Testy if you dare)
Swears there's inhabitants in every star.
If you presume to say this mayn't be true,
You lie, sir, you're a fool and blockhead too.
What he asserts, if any disbelieve,
How folks can be so dull he can't conceive.
He knows he's right; he knows his judgment's clear;
But men are so perverse they will not hear.
With him, Swift treads a dull trite beaten way;
In Young no wit, no humour smiles in Gay;
Nor truth, nor virtue, Pope, adorns thy page;
And Thompson's Liberty corrupts the age.
This to deny, if any dare presume,
Fool, coxcomb, sot, and puppy fill the room.
Hillario, who full well this humour knows,
Resolv'd one day his folly to expose,
Kindly invites him with some friends to dine,
And entertains e'm with a roast sir-loin:
Of this he knew sir Testy could not eat,
And purposely prepar'd it for his treat.
The rest begin—sir Testy, pray fall to—
You love roast beef sir, come—I know you do.
“Excuse me, sir, 'tis what I never eat.”
How, sir! not love roast beef! the king of meat!
191
I love it, sir, and you must love it too.
“I can't upon my word”, Then you're a fool,
And don't know what's good eating, by my soul.
Not love roast beef!—come, come, sirs, fill his plate,
I'll make him love it—Sir, G---d---ye, eat.
Sir Testy finding what it was they meant,
Rose in a passion, and away he went.
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