 | Poems by Matthew Stevenson |  |
To my Friend V. O. on his reading to me several Queint Poems of Mr. Stevenson's.
Well (Val.) that thou hast play'd me such a prank,
As this, (for which the Divel con thee thank!)
To coop up Wit, as ripe, as Harvest, grown
From being Commun'cative as Thine own.
And engross Faculty, as some do Pelfe,
Or others Taylors, meerly to thy self.
Th' ast lost a Friend of me;—less after seven,
A Reconciling Bottle make us even.
As this, (for which the Divel con thee thank!)
To coop up Wit, as ripe, as Harvest, grown
From being Commun'cative as Thine own.
And engross Faculty, as some do Pelfe,
Or others Taylors, meerly to thy self.
Th' ast lost a Friend of me;—less after seven,
A Reconciling Bottle make us even.
Why 'mongst the numerous Brothers of the Bay,
That we have solac'd with, (as I may say)
As Sir Wit Knight, as his Friend Wit Esquire,
And th' under-Officers, that serve ith' Quire.
At Castle, Divel, Salutation,
Escap'd I thy Facetious Stevenson?
Who makes so much of nothing, as controuls
The axiom of the Philosophick Schools.
That we have solac'd with, (as I may say)
As Sir Wit Knight, as his Friend Wit Esquire,
And th' under-Officers, that serve ith' Quire.
At Castle, Divel, Salutation,
Escap'd I thy Facetious Stevenson?
Who makes so much of nothing, as controuls
The axiom of the Philosophick Schools.
How many Quil Wrights now would sit and blot
Their Wealth in Paper, to contrive a plot.
And sowre Your Faces till they feel it come,
Eating their Nails, to th' hazard of the Thumb?
Yet when they 'ave done, a Man may hunt at least
Some thirteen Furlongs e're he start a jest.
But his unstrained Fancy's still the same,
Here every other word's an Epigram.
So free, so queint, so easie is his Muse,
That he that does not like it, let him chuse.
Their Wealth in Paper, to contrive a plot.
Eating their Nails, to th' hazard of the Thumb?
Yet when they 'ave done, a Man may hunt at least
Some thirteen Furlongs e're he start a jest.
But his unstrained Fancy's still the same,
Here every other word's an Epigram.
So free, so queint, so easie is his Muse,
That he that does not like it, let him chuse.
Henry Bold.
| Poems by Matthew Stevenson | |