Poems or, A Miscellany of Sonnets, Satyrs, Drollery, Panegyricks, Elegies, &c. At the Instance, and Request of Several Friends, Times, and Occasions, Composed; and now at their command Collected, and Committed to the Press. By the Author, M. Stevenson |
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To a Non-sensical Barbar wou'd seem Poetical.
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 | Poems |  |
To a Non-sensical Barbar wou'd seem Poetical.
Barbar, go scrape, it troubles me that I,
Can't write so low, as thy Capacity.
Shrubs are beneath the Wind, had I an Oke,
Or some tall Cedar, did my Rage provoke?
His top should kiss his toe; I hatch a Satyr,
Shou'd bow the Zenith down to the Æquator.
But who wou'd at a Hedg bird spend his shot,
Or fire a Canon at a Cockle-boat?
Can't write so low, as thy Capacity.
Shrubs are beneath the Wind, had I an Oke,
Or some tall Cedar, did my Rage provoke?
His top should kiss his toe; I hatch a Satyr,
Shou'd bow the Zenith down to the Æquator.
But who wou'd at a Hedg bird spend his shot,
Or fire a Canon at a Cockle-boat?
Varlet in Verse, thou scribless, but I see,
Nor R'yme, nor Reason, Sense, nor Quantity.
No, nor true English; it were strange, if you,
That cannot speak true English, shou'd write true.
Pure Parallels, pure disingenious Nidgit,
This an Elboick is, and that a Digit:
Just so he cuts Mens hair, here 'tis too short,
And there as much too long, as amends for't.
Go Fustian Shaver, Go to; You must get
Your living by your Hands, and not your Feet.
Nor R'yme, nor Reason, Sense, nor Quantity.
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That cannot speak true English, shou'd write true.
Pure Parallels, pure disingenious Nidgit,
This an Elboick is, and that a Digit:
Just so he cuts Mens hair, here 'tis too short,
And there as much too long, as amends for't.
Go Fustian Shaver, Go to; You must get
Your living by your Hands, and not your Feet.
| Poems | |