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TO A Wretched Poetaster;
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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182

TO A Wretched Poetaster;

That went into Mourning to counterfeit His Sister's Death.

In vain, poor fustian Fop, you dress and write,
Begot in Nature's Scorn, and Wit's Despite;
For sure she made thee, only for a Rule,
To form a Coxcomb, and a canting Fool:
In vain you tag dull miserable Rhime,
And make it with your shambling Legs to chime;
The Muse you may pursue in Nature's spite,
But never over-take her tow'ring Flight;
In this you're only right, so smart in Black,
For then, you show your Soul, upon your Back.
As the sly Peasant hangs a breathless Crow,
To scare the Vermin from the Corn below;

183

So Fortune sets thee in a World of Wit,
To keep Fools like thy self from tasting it.
Of old, we read Amphion's sacred Song,
Could draw dull Blocks, and senseless Stones along;
The same Effect among thy Books we see,
For they draw Blocks, as dull, in drawing Thee.
Thy Wit, and Money, both are of a Length,
Both stol'n, dependant on each other's Strength;
But soon thy Sister shall resume her Breath,
And to thy Muse, and Thee give surer Death;
Then, those black Ensigns of her wish'd-for Fate,
May mourn thy transient Wit, and lost Estate.
Wrote at Appleby-School, 1723.