Classic Poem

Th — — ll! what Miracles can You,
By Force of Magic Pencil, do?
What Dead-Men, on your Canvas, tell,
Life into Life, Majestical ?
And then ne'er die, but live t' adorn
The Rooms of People yet unborn.

Or, is your Mind ingag'd in Flights,
And guided, as the Maggot bites?
These's a fine Piece begun , I trow,
And there is one in Embryo :
If't thus be, Th — — ll , pray excuse
The Pertness of a Sister Muse;
Who must pretend to greater Skill,
And can work Miracles at Will:
Witness this Legend, which I send
To thee, my Covent-Garden Friend;
About a Beauteous, sickly Saint,
Which when you've read, you'll know what's in't
Thus, Th — — ll , I (Elate, proud Elf)
Am pleas'd (if you're pleas'd) with My-self;
And must be so, till better Weather,
And Fortune bring us both together.
Then I'll out-do whate'er I've writ
Of Learning, Politicks, or Wit;
And we will club our fertile Brains,
To puzzle out high, Tragic Strains;
Such as, you know, we can produce
For Poor, but Honest, Rich 's Use.
Happy! if Ti — — ll can but steal
A Minute from the Common-weal;
Than whom, no Soul can be Welcomer,
At Craggs'! not trembling nor at Homer!
And, if Yo — — g should clasp his Gradus ,
And, with ready Wit, invade us;
Would he but let th' Ægyptians rest,
And crack, in English plain, a Jest;
Bless me! the the Town would all adore us!
Nor Pope , nor Philips , stand before us.
Such Friends! Clear Souls! without Disguise,
Not over-gay, not over-wise,
Would make the Hours, with Joy, rowl on,
From Thirsty Nine, to Moister One.