Classic Poem

When you advis'd me, Sir, to chuse
Some odd new Subject for the Muse,
From Thought to Thought unpleas'd I chang'd,
Thro' Nature, Art, and Science rang'd;
Yet still could nought discover New,
Till, happily, I fix'd on You.
Your Stoic Turn, and chearful Mind,
Have mark'd You out of all Mankind,
The oddest Theme my Muse can find.

Like other Men, you nothing do;
The World's one Round of Joy to You.
The Wise, the Weak, the Sot, the Sage,
Your Hours can equally engage:
Though Sense and Merit are your Choice,
You can with gayest Fops rejoice;
Can taste them all, in Season fit,
And match their Follies or their Wit.
Truth has in you so fix'd her Seat,
Not all your Converse with the Great
Has yet misled you to Deceit.
Your Breast so bare, so free from Blame,
Why sure your Heart and Tongue's the same!

Most Hearts the harder grow with Years,
But yours yet lends th' Afflicted Tears;
Has Merit pined in Want and Grief?
Your bounteous Hand has brought Relief.
To you, where Frailty shades the Soul,
One shining Grace commends the Whole.
Can no Experience make you wiser,
Nor Age convert you to a Miser?

New too in other Points I find you,
Where modern Wits are thrown behind you.
Some praise a Patron, and reveal him;
You paint so true, you can't conceal him:
Their gawdy Praise undue, but shames him,
While yours, by Likeness, only names him.
Not Wit, that libels, makes you grave,
At what you smile my Sense wou'd rave;
While jealous Bards by Dunces stung,
With Verse provok'd, aveng'd the Wrong,
With an uncommon Candour you
Such Bards more humanly subdue:
Calm and compos'd, your conscious Spirit
Can celebrate with Praise their Merit:
Thus yielding, conquer; for sure Nature
Must feel such Praise sting worse than Satyr.

Still am I warm'd to sing your Oddness,
Your Singularity in Goodness!

When to the Wealthy and the Great,
Adorned with Honours and Estate,
My Muse, forlorn! has sent her Pray'r,
Shunn'd were the Accents of Despair,
" Till your excited Pity sped her,
And with collected Bounties fed her;
Chear'd her sad Thoughts, like genial Spring,
And tun'd once more her Voice to sing.
Bear then her grateful Notes, and be
Yourself her Theme and Harmony.
Cou'd she, like yours, exalt her Lays,
Polite Artificer of Praise!
From the sweet Song you'd jealous grow,
And guard the Laurel on your Brow.

If, which I know, these Facts are true,
Confess, at least, the Verse is new,
That publicly speaks well of you.