Classic Poem

Pope has the talent well to speak,
But not to reach the ear;
His loudest voice is low and weak,
The Dean too deaf to hear.

Awhile they on each other look,
Then different studies choose;
The Dean sits plodding on a book,
Pope walks, and courts the muse.

Now backs of letters, though designed
For those, who more will need 'em,
Are filled with hints, and interlined,
Himself can hardly read 'em.

Each atom by some other struck,
All turns and motions tries;
Till in a lump together stuck,
Behold a poem rise!

Yet to the Dean his share allot;
He claims it by a canon;
That, without which a thing is not
Is, causa sine qua non.

Thus, Pope in vain you boast your wit;
For, had our deaf divine
Been for your conversation fit,
You had not writ a line.

Of Sherlock thus, for preaching famed,
The sexton reasoned well,
And justly half the merit claimed
Because he rang the bell.