 | Poems by Matthew Stevenson |  |
To my Ingenious Friend the Author.
Thy fancy's universal, and resortsTo meanest Cottages and mightiest Courts.
Thou hast read Men, and Books, and therefore thee
Who can but call the Worlds Epitome?
Thy brain th' Idea of all things affords,
Never lodg'd so much sense in so few words.
You'l be 'tis like, when from this World you pass,
The strife of Cities, as once Homer was.
I should proceed, but dare not be too long,
While this he reads, I but the Reader wrong.
This patch I need not to thy Muse design,
'Tis thine own pen commends thee, and not mine.
Edw. Baynard.
| Poems by Matthew Stevenson | |