Classic Poem

Five Weeks, Great Ch — ll, to my Cost,
Cutting your Coat of my Arms, I lost;
I por'd my Eyes, I soil'd my Rayment,
Not doubting of a gen'rous Payment:
When, well I wot, your whole Design
Was bent to quarter your's with mine.

Curse on your plaguy Stucco Work;
Sure, 'twas invented by some Turk,
To bid to Christian Art Defiance,
And overturn each beaut'ous Science;
No Nail, forsooth, their Paste must enter,
Would one were stuck in the Inventor!

But will a Chief of Marlborough's Strain, }
The Off'ring of the Muse disdain, }
Or give her Reason to complain? }

Should I be seiz'd by Bailiff's Setter,
What! must I say? that you're my Debtor;
Why, if they threat me with a Jail,
I'll surely send to you for Bail.

The Muse and Hero ne'er should quarrel,
Our Bays thrives best beneath your Laurel:
Your Province is to shine in fight,
But our's your noble Acts to write.
Achilles' Deeds had lost their Glory
" Till famous made by Homer's Story:
Nor can You eternize your Name,
" Till we consign your Praise to Fame.
Want damps the Poets genial Fire,
Bounty can Thoughts sublime inspire;
So, crusted o'er with Flint and Clay,
The Di'mond scarce emits a Ray,
" Till, disencumber'd of the Mold,
Polish'd with Art, and set in Gold,
Resplendent Glory it displays,
And rivals Phoebus' noon-tide Blaze.