 | The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester |  |
On Poet Ninny.
Crusht by that just contempt his Follys bringOn his Crazd Head, the Vermin faine wou'd sting;
But never Satyr, did soe softly bite,
Or gentle George, himself, more gently write.
Borne to noe other, but thy owne disgrace,
Thou art a thing soe wretched, and soe base,
Thou canst not ev'n offend, but with thy face:
And dost at once, a sad Example prove,
Of harmlesse Malice, and of hoplesse Love.
All Pride, and Uglinesse! Oh how wee loath,
A nauseous Creature soe compos'd of both!
How oft' have wee thy Cap'ring Person seene,
With dismall looke, and Melacholly Meene?
116
Some mighty Heroe, and makes Love, like thee.
Thou art below being laught at, out of spight,
Men gaze upon thee, as a hideous sight,
And cry, there goes the Melancholly Knight.
There are some Modish Fooles, wee dayly see,
Modest, and dull; why they are Witts to thee!
For of all Folly, sure the very topp,
Is a conceited Ninny, and a Fopp.
With Face, of Farce, joyn'd to a head Romancy,
There's noe such Coxcomb, as your Foole of fancy.
But 'tis too much, on soe despis'd a Theame;
Noe Man, wou'd dabble in a dirty Streame:
The worst that I cou'd write, wou'd be noe more,
Then what thy very Friends have said before.
| The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester | |