Classic Poem

Guid heav'n, what perils catch the men,
Who meddle with that plague, a pen;
Ne'er shall they know sweet rest again,
Once, they have took it,
Bewitch'd, they wax as lean's a wren,
Wi' empty pocket.

Odes, sonnets, anagram, and rebus,
All wrote without the aid of Phaebus;
But scrawl'd by Sphinxes,
And, then, all day, the Muses they buss,
The coaxing Minxes!

Had, they an Hospital to dwell in,
Where they might fare, e'en medling, well in,
They might, be scribbling, singing, railing,
Ad infinitum ,

For, by my saul, their volumes selling,
But ill requite 'em.

Patrons, good sooth, there live, most dainty,
But leave behind 'em, rose-check'd plenty;
Thrice, and four times, they look, ere twenty
pence are given,

And if good words, will na' content ye,
Seek more in heaven.