 | Alexander Pope: Minor poems |  |
195
LINES to Lord BATHURST.
A wood? quoth Lewis; and with that,
He laughd, and shook his Sides so fat:
His tongue (with Eye that markd his cunning)
Thus fell a reas'ning, not a running.
He laughd, and shook his Sides so fat:
His tongue (with Eye that markd his cunning)
Thus fell a reas'ning, not a running.
Woods are (not to be too prolix)
Collective Bodies of strait Sticks.
It is, my Lord, a meer Conundrum
To call things Woods, for what grows und'r 'em.
For Shrubs, when nothing else at top is,
Can only constitute a Coppice.
But if you will not take my word,
See Anno quart. of Edward, third.
And that they're Coppice calld, when dock'd,
Witness Ann. prim. of Henry Oct.
Collective Bodies of strait Sticks.
It is, my Lord, a meer Conundrum
To call things Woods, for what grows und'r 'em.
For Shrubs, when nothing else at top is,
Can only constitute a Coppice.
But if you will not take my word,
See Anno quart. of Edward, third.
And that they're Coppice calld, when dock'd,
Witness Ann. prim. of Henry Oct.
If this a Wood you will maintain
Meerly because it is no Plain;
Holland (for all that I can see)
Might e'en as well be termd the Sea;
And C---by be fair harangu'd
An honest Man, because not hang'd.
Meerly because it is no Plain;
Holland (for all that I can see)
Might e'en as well be termd the Sea;
And C---by be fair harangu'd
An honest Man, because not hang'd.
| Alexander Pope: Minor poems | |