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To my dear Brother Mr. H. B. on his Poems.
  
  
  
  
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To my dear Brother Mr. H. B. on his Poems.

Harry,

Since Souldier, call'd thy Brother, Captain
My Fancy has not so much Air been wrapt in,
As when the amorous couch and lovelick't Bolster
Have made me 'mong the Muses keep an old stir;
Since Bilbo-Blade hath put fist out of order
I nere approach'd Parnassus, (scarce the Border)
So then thou must not look that I should praise thee
In that Emphatick strein we now-adays see
Yet I have read thy Lines, can judg and know 'em
That few or none) have writ so quaint a Poem.
And he that has Design the like to write now,
Listen to mine Advice, I'le set him right how:
Let him be so much Merchant (cause I doubt it)
T'ensure his Paper 'ere he go about it.
And if the Cargo of his Wit be lost
Hee'l ha't again, (the Liquour's in the Toast)
Thou therefore mayst be sure none can abuse
The generous fancy of thy frolique Muse;
For he that writes to imitate thy Vein
May write, and keep the paper for his Pain.


As He that thought to write like Princely Spencer,
Prov'd in his Faculty, a very Fencer:
No more to be compar'd then Trigg to Frazier
Or Turvy-Tinker to an Acon-Brazier.
In their own sphere, thou writ'st to King and Court too:
The next Page makes the Amorous Ladies sport too.
If souldier throw off sword and fall to drink,
Here's that will match his Humour too, I think.
The willow'd Lover apt to howl and whimper
At reading thee begins to smile and simper.
And every Humour's fancy'd so compleatly
I cannot say 'tis boldly done but neatly.
William Bold Esq;