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The Distressed Poet

A Serio-Comic Poem, in Three Cantos. By George Keate
  
  

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Faith, cries Apollo, I see clearly
You'll treat this Fellow damn'd severely,

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To render useless his expences,
Then scare him out of half his senses;
For me, I think 'twould be enough
To give him one good hearty cuff;
A blow from you but rarely fails;
The print of sweet Vexation's nails,
In all great instances, we find,
Leave long-remember'd marks behind:
Besides, beyond a certain length
Should you exert your art and strength,
You know that Mastiff-like, our Laws
Stand grinning with their wide-mouth'd jaws,
To snarl, and tear th' insulting hand
Which dares their mighty Growl withstand;
Tho' sometimes too they turn and bite
The very man that's in the right.
Now, should our Culprit in distress
Seek their protection and redress,

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And, all his injuries strongly marking,
Set these same legal Dogs a barking,
Where is the man can say, or know,
When thus attack'd, how things may go?
Our great design may burst in air,
And you, and I, like stuck-pigs stare.
Therefore, once more, my dear Vexation,
Let me advise for—Moderation.