 | Churchill defended, a poem |  |
Come, Priests, in gen'ral, cruel, tho' demure,
And strip a Poet of his little Cure:
I can but then be absolutely poor,
And Dryden's Flame was chill'd with Want before.
Good Epictetus, whose unspotted Fame,
What Man degenerate of our Days can claim?
Inured to Fortune's Rigour from his Birth,
Possess'd but Virtue, and a Lamp of Earth;
And pamper'd Churchmen, you and I have read
Of one who had not where to lay his Head.
And strip a Poet of his little Cure:
I can but then be absolutely poor,
And Dryden's Flame was chill'd with Want before.
Good Epictetus, whose unspotted Fame,
What Man degenerate of our Days can claim?
Inured to Fortune's Rigour from his Birth,
Possess'd but Virtue, and a Lamp of Earth;
And pamper'd Churchmen, you and I have read
Of one who had not where to lay his Head.
| Churchill defended, a poem | |