 | Poetical recreations |  |
95
To my Adopted BROTHER, Mr. G. P.
On my frequent Writing to Him.
Dear Brother, You will think that now,Epistles grow on every Bow,
O'th' multitude of Shin-gay Trees,
And so drop off like Soland Geese.
In this the Analogie holds forth,
They are produc'd of airy froth;
But how they'll answer in the rest,
Without conjuring, may be guess'd:
For when you find they want the heat
Of Wit and Sence to make them meat;
And that the inside's only down,
Soft as the scope they grew upon:
You'll curse the Winds officious wings,
Because to you no good it brings;
96
Which so oft has been rehers'd:
For now it must be understood,
It's happy Wind blows any good;
But thank your self for so being serv'd,
And praise no more where 'ts not deserv'd:
For praise, the Gad-fly of the mind,
To pure desert shou'd be confin'd,
Lest it set it Cock-a-hoop,
And make it run with Tail turn'd up,
Through the Woods, and o'er the Downs,
Through Cities, Villages, and Towns;
And plague both genteel Fops and Rabble,
With its Nonsence, Rhime and Babble,
Till by its follies they are urged,
To send it home severely scourged,
With the keenest Whips of Scoffing,
Damming, Censuring and Laughing.
Then prithee, George, prevent this wretched Fate,
And all their damning Censures antedate.
| Poetical recreations | |