 | The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison |  |
155
On Crito , who wrote against Me.
They say that out of pure Ill-Nature
Crito has lately wrote a Satire;
On me too—That the silly Elf
Should be forgetful of Himself!
Crito has lately wrote a Satire;
On me too—That the silly Elf
Should be forgetful of Himself!
Satire's a very dangerous thing,
And often wears a double Sting;
And tho' it chance to lose its Aim,
It seldom fails in getting Game.
So Gun enrag'd to miss the Black-bird,
Recoiling, knocks poor Lobcock backward.
And often wears a double Sting;
And tho' it chance to lose its Aim,
It seldom fails in getting Game.
So Gun enrag'd to miss the Black-bird,
Recoiling, knocks poor Lobcock backward.
156
But Crito tells me, full of Choler,
He'as drawn me in my proper Colour;
I thank him for his merry Whim,
And fain would do the same by him;
But hang it tho', 'tis cursed Cost,
To daub an Ass on every Post!
But all consider'd tho', I think
I'ad e'en as good take up with Ink:
On second Thoughts too, 'cause 'tis black,
It seems the very thing I lack,
For I am apt to think his Soul
Is somewhat darker than a Coal.
He'as drawn me in my proper Colour;
I thank him for his merry Whim,
And fain would do the same by him;
But hang it tho', 'tis cursed Cost,
To daub an Ass on every Post!
But all consider'd tho', I think
I'ad e'en as good take up with Ink:
On second Thoughts too, 'cause 'tis black,
It seems the very thing I lack,
For I am apt to think his Soul
Is somewhat darker than a Coal.
But yet, old Boy, I see in spight
Of all your forc'd ill-natur'd Wit,
The very self-same thing you strive at;
The very End and Aim you drive at:
But faith I han't Time, tho' you lack now,
The Favour Dryden did for Flecknoe.
And slily want to steal in Print,
And that I'm sure is all that's in't.
Of all your forc'd ill-natur'd Wit,
The very self-same thing you strive at;
The very End and Aim you drive at:
But faith I han't Time, tho' you lack now,
The Favour Dryden did for Flecknoe.
157
And that I'm sure is all that's in't.
So Country-Girl, in Breeding awkard,
Whips up Ralph's Chair, and tilts him backward;
Tho' all the while she means no Hurt,
And does it, as she says, for Sport:
Ay, ay, but if I rightly guess,
Her Sport, summ'd up, amounts to this;
That she, in jest, may teach the Clown
To throw herself in earnest down.
Whips up Ralph's Chair, and tilts him backward;
Tho' all the while she means no Hurt,
And does it, as she says, for Sport:
Ay, ay, but if I rightly guess,
Her Sport, summ'd up, amounts to this;
That she, in jest, may teach the Clown
To throw herself in earnest down.
| The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison | |