Classic Poem

Ye sons of Athens, grant me one request,
And I'll requite you with a pleasing jest.
Protect me from my Master's cruel rod;
Hide me, O hide me, from the tyrant's nod!
He penned a prologue which to me was shown;
I liked it not, and told him 'twould not down.
He said it humor had, and wit enough,
But to my thinking it was scurvy stuff;
Howe'er, he made me get it all by heart,
And thus instructed my to play the part:

“Dear Tommy, child, repeat the whole with care;
Here you must raise your voice, but sink it there.
Then in due order take your playthings up:
Now whip your gig, now spin your castle-top,
Then take in hand your Virgil and your kite,
Throw Virgil on the ground, set that to flight,
Then speak these lines, I'm sure they'll give delight.”

Thus he desired me to speak and act—
Believe me, Sirs, what I relate is fact;
And now he waits, expecting I should say
That trifling prologue to this serious play;
But I must beg in that to be excused;
I would not have the audience so abused.
Such entertainment is not fit for men,
Till they have reached their childish state again—
Not like that rev'rend sage in whom appears
New force of reason in advanced years.
O, could I celebrate with equal parts
That patron of religion and of arts,
The stay of right, the church's chief support,
His country's champion and her last resort!

But I forbear, and now I must provide
For my own safety, for I fear I've tried
My Master's patience, and his anger moved,
In speaking what he ne'er would have approved.
I know my danger, but I can't repent
For being steady to a good intent.

Thus firmly did Hippolytus pursue
The slipp'ry paths of virtue, though he knew
His ruin thence would certainly ensue.
Since our conditions are so near the same,
They both alike your kind compassion claim:
Grant your protection then, ye sons of wit,
To poor Hippolytus, and poor Tom Tit.