Peter Faultless to his brother Simon :: :: University of Virginia Library

Who may not be the thing he should be,
But would be clever, if he could be;
Who—lo, what good the loves have done him!—
Has had eight bantlings father'd on him,
And, though he ne'er had free grace any,
Might tell his faults (some say they're many)
Like Byron, were he skill'd to word it,
But that he can't, like him, afford it;
Of form erect, and hurried pace,
Not rather rough-dash'd in the face;
Whose grizzly locks, that once were brown,
And somewhat curly, are his own;
Whose dark frock coat, and neckcloth plain,
Cause him to be for Quaker ta'en,
Or saint, (sad blunder!) or demure
Quack Doctor, who all ills can cure,
Save ills o' th' pocket, which the poet
Would hide just now, but cannot do it;
In stature dwarf'd, not five feet seven;
Too much to sheepish blushing given;
With ghost-like brow, and pale blue eye;
As question'd man in office, shy;

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Yet form'd for action, though not well,
And prouder than the devil in hell;—
That bard, whom Night's black malice curses,
Because he scar'd her with his verses,
Sends you his poem, (many a worse is,)
Hoping you will with caution read it,
Vidé—take't as physic, when you need it,
In doses small; for such will steep
Clear optics soon in tuneful sleep,
Acting by th' blessing, or by th' charm,
And cannot do wise patients harm;
While heads with fudge fill'd full before
Have no occasion to take more