Epigram
My Lord complains, that Pope, stark mad with gardens,
Has lopt three trees the value of three farthings:
But he's my neighbour, cries the peer polite,
And if he'll visit me, I'll wave my right.
What? on Compulsion? and against my Will,
A Lord's acquaintance? Let him file his Bill.
Has lopt three trees the value of three farthings:
But he's my neighbour, cries the peer polite,
And if he'll visit me, I'll wave my right.
What? on Compulsion? and against my Will,
A Lord's acquaintance? Let him file his Bill.
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