University of Virginia Library

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194

A short Resentment of an Ironical Poem.

Momus , O why so peevish grown,
Hast thou got all the Wit alone,
That no unhappy Muse can be,
From thy ill-natur'd Cavils, free,
What if my worthless Numbers are
Too scanty and irregular,
My Praise too humble for the Theme,
My Satyr harsh to an Extream,
My Similies too wide and course,
My Fancy low, my Language worse,
What's this to thee, thou do'st not bear
My Faults or in the Scandal share,
Why do'st not quarrel with the Light
O'th Moon, like barking Curs at Night,
And pelt her Glories with Disgrace,
Because she's spotted in the Face,

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195

Or to employ thy Talent, blame
The halting Horse for being lame,
And rail at e'ery Fool you see,
Perhaps not quite so wise thee,

Are you the Touch-stone of the Town,
That all Wit must be try'd upon,
Must none but what is first essay'd
By you, and as you please, allay'd,
Be allow'd Standard, but be thought
Too course, and be condemn'd for nought;
'Ts hard, lest you can shew in Print,
A Patent for Apollos's Mint,
Which, I must tell you, ought to be
Some noble Task from Error free,
At least a new Dispensary,
That will our Admiration raise
And challenge universal Praise,
When you have prov'd yourself thus wise,
I'll take your Judgement and Advice,
But for your Councel, tho so kind,
I scarce shall mind it till I find

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196

In something that your self has writ,
You've less Ill-nature and more Wit.
Can no Man lash a Knave or Fool,
A Coward Bully or a Trul,
But you, as if you felt the Smart,
Must brandish your Ironick Dart,
To shew your Anger and your Art;
So if poor Satyr does but wag
His pricked Ears at City Stag,
The rest will butt you with their Horns,
And think you've trod upon their Corns,
Altho to entertain your Muse,
According as the Hunters use,
You only singled out and took
Of all the Herd the fairest Buck.