Classic Poem

There's punning Tom Sh-r-d-n, Phoebus's darling,
And eke the tragedian, General St-rl-ng.
But why should I name 'em, for there's to my knowledge
An hundred that set up for wits in the College;
And that for no reason that I ever knew,
But because they're persuaded 'emselves that 'tis true.
Take any of these, then, as well as we love 'em;
The soul of Great Britain perhaps may improve them.
But if Sw—t or D-1—y should go off to London,
Poor Dublin, alas! would be perfectly undone.
Then take whom you will of the musical herd,
But Patrick and Jonathan cannot be spared.
So now I have done, and, without being rude,
Permit me, dear Madam, at once to conclude.