 | Poems |  |
xxvii
TO ANTHONY PASQUIN, Esq.
Just Satyrist, thy fruitful theme pursue,Still hold the mirror up to Folly's view:
To her vain eyes each glaring fault disclose,
That she may blush such errors to expose;
But shrinking from the public gaze retire
To some rude barn, where gaping fools admire.
There let her strut, with buskin'd pride elate,
Start, stare, rave, die, in mock heroics great.
Or if in antic mood the sock she wears,
Though her broad front beneath the mask appears,
The loud applause from Ignorance she'll gain,
In all that gives sense, taste, and judgment pain,
Still, Pasquin, in the noble task engage,
Till Folly's driven from the British stage.
Yet, not to Satire is thy pen confin'd,
True Panegyric shews a generous mind,
By liberal sentiment and taste refin'd.
Where excellence broke forth with dazzling rays,
That excellence obtain'd thy glowing praise,
And modest merit with soft lustre shines,
Set to advantage in thy charming lines.
Truth will approve, and brilliant Wit admire
A work that emulation must inspire,
And envious scribblers must in vain oppose,
While only Vice and Folly are thy foes.
J. BUTLER.
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