 | A Collection Of Poems |  |
124
The Two BOOKS;
A Tale.
In Tonson's Shop, at Shakespear's Head,
Two Books by chance together laid;
The one as smart as Birth-Day Beau,
In all that Brindley's Art could show:
In Turkey's finest Leather Bound,
And deckt with Flowers of Gold around.
T'other in greasy Parchment drest,
The sad effects of Time confest;
Thick Dust thro' all his Leaves was pour'd,
And Worms his learned Sides devour'd.
Two Books by chance together laid;
The one as smart as Birth-Day Beau,
In all that Brindley's Art could show:
In Turkey's finest Leather Bound,
And deckt with Flowers of Gold around.
T'other in greasy Parchment drest,
The sad effects of Time confest;
Thick Dust thro' all his Leaves was pour'd,
And Worms his learned Sides devour'd.
The Beau then of his Coat full proud,
Turn'd up his Nose; and cry'd aloud.
Ye Gods! what Fate has plac'd me here?
Who can that wretched Sloven bear?
That load of Nastiness so near?
His very Dress offends my Sight,
His stink of Age destroys me quite.
Thus spoke the Modern's gilded Pride,
And thus the Son of Time reply'd.
Neighbour, to all by equal Heaven
Their Portion of desert is given.
'Tis yours, Sir, to be Nice and Fine,
Something perhaps as good is mine.
Pray hearken, Sir, and you shall hear it,
Oh! by no means, I cannot bear it.
Nay, give me liberty to Speak,
Foh! how he stinks, here Jacob, quick,
Remove me from this odious Fellow,
He'll make me all o'er Dirt and Tallow.
A Revd. Dr. passing by,
On our Old Grecian cast his Eye.
Here—what's the Price of that there Stevens?
Nine Guineas, Sir,—I'll give you Seven;
Faith, Sir, I can't abate one Farthing,
Nay, I'll assure you 'tis a bargain.
Turn'd up his Nose; and cry'd aloud.
125
Who can that wretched Sloven bear?
That load of Nastiness so near?
His very Dress offends my Sight,
His stink of Age destroys me quite.
Thus spoke the Modern's gilded Pride,
And thus the Son of Time reply'd.
Neighbour, to all by equal Heaven
Their Portion of desert is given.
'Tis yours, Sir, to be Nice and Fine,
Something perhaps as good is mine.
Pray hearken, Sir, and you shall hear it,
Oh! by no means, I cannot bear it.
Nay, give me liberty to Speak,
Foh! how he stinks, here Jacob, quick,
Remove me from this odious Fellow,
He'll make me all o'er Dirt and Tallow.
A Revd. Dr. passing by,
On our Old Grecian cast his Eye.
126
Nine Guineas, Sir,—I'll give you Seven;
Faith, Sir, I can't abate one Farthing,
Nay, I'll assure you 'tis a bargain.
Well here!—but what's that Bound in Red,
All o'er with Flowers of Gold bespread?
Why what Extravagance is this?
Was e'er Expence so much amiss?
Such curious Art, and to bestow it,
Upon this rascal L---t Poet!
All o'er with Flowers of Gold bespread?
Why what Extravagance is this?
Was e'er Expence so much amiss?
Such curious Art, and to bestow it,
Upon this rascal L---t Poet!
Say, are these Characters not plain,
Etch'd out in emblematick Strain?
Do not the Courtiers scornful Eyes
The Man that's meanly Cloath'd despise,
Tho' oft a real Man is this,
The other nothing but a Dress?
Etch'd out in emblematick Strain?
Do not the Courtiers scornful Eyes
The Man that's meanly Cloath'd despise,
Tho' oft a real Man is this,
The other nothing but a Dress?
| A Collection Of Poems | |