 | Poems by Matthew Stevenson |  |
To my Ingenious Friend the Author.
By Friends 'tis meet that something should be writ,Though but t'accompany a Friend to Wit.
Things that are rare nakedly laid to view
All do gaze at, but are ador'd by few.
The pomp of Princes in the vulgar Eye,
Would soon decay but for its Pageantry.
Attendants give a Lustre, and I come
Amongst my Friends, to fill a vacant Room.
But pray below, above, I fear the Air
Suits not the Climate of my Hemisphere.
Scoggin and Ben late in conjunction met,
Such strange effects have wrought upon thy Pate.
Makes me afraid near that hot seat to sit.
Lest I be Carbonado'd by thy Wit.
Thy Joques are smart, thy Quibbles quick, Tropes run
As free from thee, as Sun-beam from the Sun.
Thy Verse is smooth, yet piercing as the Wind,
It smiles, and frowns, is both unkind, and kind.
It nothing wants, but that which of late dayes,
Ungrateful men keep back, that is just praise.
I could say more, but Prologues should be short,
Too long a Preface, often spoils good sport.
E. Bostocke.
| Poems by Matthew Stevenson | |