Classic Poem

When B — n heard that John made Verse,
He goes, and begs him to rehearse.
You make a Poet , John? quoth he ,
Why you're unlearn'd, it cannot be:
'Tis true, the Fancy's good enough,
But then the Language is such Stuff.

Sir, these were writ five Years ago — —
Some later Piece, quoth B — — n, show .

Home goes the Priest; John writes a Poem,
Copies it fair, and runs to show him.
See, Sir, the last I ever made — —
Dear John, quoth B — — n, mind thy Trade !
Here's Language, that's the most I can say,
For, Lack a Day, I see no Fancy!

Confirm'd this Thirtieth of November,
Lyars and Critics should remember .