 | Poems by Matthew Stevenson |  |
To my Ingenious Friend, Mr. Matthew Stevenson on His Excellent Poems.
I'ave sometimes stoln into those Hives that keep
The swarms of Wits at Night; & where few peep
But either Laden are, or thought to be,
With Ethicks, Politicks, or Poetry:
And silently observ'd a deem'd Wit, fish
To catch a jest out of his Coffee-dish.
But think 'tis either custom makes him sit,
Or Reputation, to be thought a Wit.
For in whole Evenings, I have heard no more
Of Wit, than what the Players said before.
But 'tis the Mode (one told me) now adayes,
Many that make, meet there to speak their plays.
Oft thus, I'ave wonder'd and as oft I swear,
Have wish'd, and wish'd, that Stevenson were there.
The swarms of Wits at Night; & where few peep
But either Laden are, or thought to be,
With Ethicks, Politicks, or Poetry:
And silently observ'd a deem'd Wit, fish
To catch a jest out of his Coffee-dish.
But think 'tis either custom makes him sit,
Or Reputation, to be thought a Wit.
For in whole Evenings, I have heard no more
Of Wit, than what the Players said before.
But 'tis the Mode (one told me) now adayes,
Many that make, meet there to speak their plays.
Oft thus, I'ave wonder'd and as oft I swear,
Have wish'd, and wish'd, that Stevenson were there.
Thy Genius (Friend) like New Philosophy,
Does make so pleasant a Discovery,
That we may judge thy Language does afford
Wit, sense, and reason too, in every word.
Many can talk of Fancy and Design
In Poems; yet mistake, as those do Wine,
When Verjuice mix'd with Water they have tane
For Paris, Chablin, or Le vine Champaign.
Such may arrive to pen a Modish Ballad,
And think they're th' only Wits; but to my pallat,
Their Writing's flat, insipid, what d'ye call't?
When every line of Thine does tast of salt.
Their's, like long Graces before Meat, run on,
Whose Food grows cold, before the speech is done.
At once Thine gets and pleases Appetite,
As do the Morsels newly cut from spit.
The Reader here need take no pains to look
Which is the queintest Poem in the book.
(As I have known in some) when I protest,
They're all so well, that every one's the best.
Does make so pleasant a Discovery,
That we may judge thy Language does afford
Wit, sense, and reason too, in every word.
Many can talk of Fancy and Design
In Poems; yet mistake, as those do Wine,
When Verjuice mix'd with Water they have tane
For Paris, Chablin, or Le vine Champaign.
And think they're th' only Wits; but to my pallat,
Their Writing's flat, insipid, what d'ye call't?
When every line of Thine does tast of salt.
Their's, like long Graces before Meat, run on,
Whose Food grows cold, before the speech is done.
At once Thine gets and pleases Appetite,
As do the Morsels newly cut from spit.
The Reader here need take no pains to look
Which is the queintest Poem in the book.
(As I have known in some) when I protest,
They're all so well, that every one's the best.
Val. Oldis.
| Poems by Matthew Stevenson | |