Classic Poem

While, each Week, the vast Swarm of Itinerant Papers,
Instead of diverting, oft give us the Vapours,
Their Matter so tedious, their Numbers still breeding
Too little for Money, too much for our Reading,
Thy compact Magazine, dear Sylvanus , is stor'd
With all the choice Themes their swell'd Columns afford.
Great chymical Author! unequal'd in Merit,
From their Mass you extract all their Oyl and their Spirit.
Each Monthly Production so variously grac'd,
Is read by all Parties, approv'd by each Taste.

Here the Page lays to view the grand Topics of State,
Now Journalists wrangle, now Senates debate;
Like Fish-wives the former rail, argue, and fight,
The last jarr genteely, in terms how polite!

If the Youthful and Fair, indispos'd to grave Knowledge,
Slight Disputes of the State, or the Church, or the College;
Which their Taste, or their Years, or their Sex disapprove,
Thou hast Subjects of Satire, and Humour and Love;
Or thy Pages, adorn'd with the Poet's Invention,
Will brighten their Fancy, and charm their Attention.
In Enigma's, lo! some their deep Meaning close shut,
Or with artful Expressions gild Scandal or Smut.
With Caution attend to such dissolute Pleaders,
Nor to humour the worst, pique the best of your Readers.
Whate'er Correspondents, Friend Urban , pretend,
They've still besides yours some Self-interest at end,
Some Person or Party to praise or bespatter,
A Mistress to court, or a Patron to flatter;
Still Merit's thy Page, where the Charms of the Nine
With the Graces and Virtues distinguish'dly shine;
To your Motto most true, for our monthly Inspection,
You mix various rich Sweets in ONE fragrant Collection.