 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
128
COWLEY mouse-eaten:
In his own Style.
Now, Curses on Ye all, Ye nibbling Train,
Whom neither Fame, nor Wit cou'd move;
Nor, that best Marksman, Love,
Drive with his strong Bow from his fav'rite Swain.
Whom neither Fame, nor Wit cou'd move;
Nor, that best Marksman, Love,
Drive with his strong Bow from his fav'rite Swain.
Ah! why did ye not wreak your hungry Rage
On some dark Schoolman's lumber Head,
Or Commentator dead?
Methinks, They might have spar'd You many a Page.
On some dark Schoolman's lumber Head,
Or Commentator dead?
Methinks, They might have spar'd You many a Page.
129
But ye, no doubt, had in some Court been bred,
Like that Cit-Mouse, as Horace sings,
That liv'd on better Things,
Than oaten Ears, or Scraps of mouldy Bread.
Like that Cit-Mouse, as Horace sings,
That liv'd on better Things,
Than oaten Ears, or Scraps of mouldy Bread.
Be what Ye may—but shou'd Ye dare to gnaw
My Cowley's Leaves, You'll find, I trow,
Some harder Cheese to chew,
Within a Trap of Wire, or grey Grimalkin's Paw.
My Cowley's Leaves, You'll find, I trow,
Some harder Cheese to chew,
Within a Trap of Wire, or grey Grimalkin's Paw.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |