Classic Poem

Our Age has much improv'd the Warriour's Art;
For Fighting, now, is thought the weakest Part;
And a good Head, more useful than a Heart.
This Way of War, does our Example yield;
That Stage will win, which longest keeps the Field.
We mean not Battel, when we bid Defiance;
But starving one another to Compliance.
Our Troops encamp'd are by each other view'd,
And those which first are Hungry, are subdu'd.
And there, in Truth, depends the great Decision:
They conquer, who cut off the Foe's Provision.
Let Fools, with Knocks and Bruises, keep a pother,
Our War and Trade, is to out-Wit each other.
But hold: Will not the Politicians tell us,
That both our Conduct, and our Foresight, fail us,
To raise Recruits, and draw new Forces down,
Thus, in the dead Vacation of the Town?
To muster up our Rhimes, without our Reason,
And forage for an Audience out of Season?
Our Author's Fears must this false Step excuse;
'Tis the first Flight of a just-feather'd Muse;
Th' Occasion ta'en, when Criticks are away;
Half Wits and Beaux, those rav'nous Birds of Prey.
But, Heav'n be prais'd, far hence they vent their Wrath,
Mauling, in mild Lampoon, th' intriguing Bath .
Thus does our Author his First Flight commence;
Thus, against Friends at first, with Foils we fence:
Thus prudent Gimcrack try'd if he were able
(Ere he'd wet Foot) to swim upon a Table.
Then spare the Youth: or if you'll damn the Play ,
Let him but first have His; then take your Day.