Classic Poem

 The Muses look'd at one another,
And scarce a giggling fit could smother:
Tho' they had many a time before
Seen his caprices o'er and o'er,
They ne'er conceiv'd his laurell'd head
By a tie-wig would be o'erspread,
Or that he'd quit his glorious line,
As patron to the sacred N INE ,
On fair O LYMPUS turn his back,
Once Prince of Poets, now a Quack:
But some vagary to pursue,
What will not Gods or Mortals do!

 Our Ladies, it must be confess'd,
Were at this matter much distress'd;
Their pride was hurt, their own A POLLO
Could such a sniv'ling business follow,
Or have for Quack'ry such an itch:
But being now just at F LEET D itch ,
'Twas neither a fit place or season
On all his foolish pranks to reason,
So L UDGATE H ILL they straight ascended,
And at his shop their journey ended.

 Now when these fair P ARNASSIAN trippers
The D OCTOR found, in cap and slippers,
Smoaking his pipe, and on his table
His pot of porter, quite unable
Longer to hide their swelling ire,
Th' immortal Master of the lyre
They thus address'd—What! does A POLLO
Think we can this ill treatment swallow?
Without a Chief our Mountain left,
Ourselves of patronage bereft;
Is't not enough to rouse our passion,
To find we're getting out of fashion?
Our altars, which burnt once so bright,
Casting a poor expiring light,
Whilst you, turn'd Mountebank below,
Care not above how matters go?—
Who'd e'er have dream'd the God of Verse
Could condescend to act the nurse?
Roll up vile pills, cut corns, spread blisters,
And change your pipe to pipe of glisters?
Rouse, rouse, for shame, and aid our quarrel,
Burn your tie-wig, and take your laurel;
Your native skies once more ascend,
And all this trifling nonsense end!
Whilst you are physicking the nation
We lose our power of inspiration,
As much distress'd and out of case
As ministers when out of place.
Who will invoke, or who obey
The Muses , who no longer sway?
Each writer now will take to prosing,
And all his readers take to dosing.
If Genius once is lull'd to sleep,
Who will the fine P ARNASSUS keep,
'Twill turn to a tea-drinking Garden ,
Nor you nor we be worth one farthing.