Classic Poem

Since Verses, Reader, must ensue,
'Tis necessary, first, that you
Should know the Reasons why I writ,
From Hampsted -Town, this Piece of Wit:
Trifles, just proving Bad or Good,
As th' are, or are not, understood;
And as for mine, they have this Virtue,
That, either way, they will divert you.

  Ti——ll and Yo——g , resolv'd to spend
An Evening, gay, with me their Friend;
Their Mirth to raise, and Wit refine,
With mutual Love and sprightly Wine;
Whose Beamy Th——ll for the Fourth;
Painter! proud, and Man of Worth.

Swift the joyous Hours go round,
With Th—ll 's Praises, chiefly crown'd;
Upon whose Plans, much Time being spent;
At last, I ask'd them What they meant?
—They hop'd (t' oblige the World, so wide,
And raise his Native Country's Pride)
Th—ll his Genius, far, wou'd stretch;
His noble Paintings, form the Sketch;
New labour'd Strokes, well-wrought Designs;
—Such as glare in these my Lines;
Drew something (not in Touches faint)
Our exceeding Greenwich Paint;
Fair! as what I here indite
Surpasses all I've wrote, or e'er shall write.

As for this Poem, now before you,
Tio partl' Epistle, partly Story.
To grace the Fable or the Fiction,
If Garth 's good Sense, or Pope 's good Diction,
Be wanting, sure you a'n't so blind,
As not to see, this was design'd;
Their Beauties shine in their own way,
And Ovid speaks, in all They say.
Since, therefore, I've long toil'd in vain,
To trace this sweet Nasonian Strain;
I'll not descend (let all Men know it)
To copy from a Copying Poet.

 And now the Publick must excuse
A Thing wrote only to amuse:
Brought forth, one Morning, this Hot Season;
And Printed without Rhyme or Reason;
So Dull, I'm sure, it can't offend;
Deserves no Foe; can have no Friend.

 And yet so sowr, so sharp, 's Mankind,
Some Critic, Bigot, Fop, may find
Strange Things, of wicked, dire Intent;
Tho', Heaven knows, I nothing meant,
But innocent, poor, harmless Lays:
At least, no Envy, if no Praise.