Classic Poem

Dear Dean, if e'er again you write,
Beware of subjects you call trite,
For satire's now so common grown
That every s--th and type in town
Have teased, by calling to their aid
The Graces and the other maid,
That, faith, I think there scarce is room
For you or I to crave a boon;
But, yet, you'll find by what will follow,
That I'm befriended by Apollo,
And that by all I e'er did hear
Minerva ne'er an oath did swear
Unless by you she was entreated
When first of Griz, you Grafton rated;
But as to ditto'd through the town,
You never did, for 'twould not down.

My country's saved, as you have shown,
And skin's yet whole, I needs must own,
But if by chance I should deny it
I'm sure old Jour--you'd not stand by it;
And if you should, we'd ne'er have end on't,
Both church and state, being still dependent.
The weather's fair, nay that is true,
But what is it to me or you?
Or if 'tis true, great Phoebus smiles
On this, as upon other isles,
I know no reason at this time
We should them quote, unless for rhyme.
In gold, perhaps, my friend you wallow
And Woods's ditto pills do swallow,
Being positive there is no priest
So bent on gains, juro by Christ,
As you dear Smedley are, being sure
The coin's current and the metal pure.
If Wood's coin should 'mongst us pass
Though now I'm poor I then might pass
As well as you, for a Midas:
Then as to war's alarms I pray
What is't that you or I've to say,
(Who ought for peace and plenty pray.)
Science and art you say at stand are,
How can that be, when you at hand are,
I can't conjecture, for dear Dean,
You hate to see aught that seems clean
Since Cindercola first you courted
And with the youthful damsel sported.
Helsham does truly wit command
And surely writes with sleight of hand;
For Sherry's quibbles and thy skill
They are as once, and idem still.
Since I'm Apollo styled by you,
Whene'er I 'gin, you should pursue
And boldly force the winged quill
Unto the utmost bounds of skill,
And never turn upon thy master
Who saved thee from a great disaster.
What's meant by chapon I can't guess
And making some for idiots pass
Unless i' the answer of his Grace,
Which if right taken, and but good luck hold
By the horned sun, he sure meant cuckold,
Not saying, lest I go too far,
That you an Actaeon was, or are.

Now let's no more caress thy French,
Nor Cindercola, charming wench!
Lest my mob's mouth, being seldom quiet
Should them ordain for Lenten diet;
Snarlerus next, I'm sure has need
Of prayers, that he might well succeed,
And bravely Precox might oppose
Cum multis aliis (all his foes)
When they're to pull him by the nose,
And by the order of his betters
Have him confined in iron fetters;
Now you've done right, no knight attempting
To oppose the Dean, yourself exempting
Because no--but, black-gowned foe,
As when time serves, you more shall know.