Classic Poem

ADDRESS'D TO A CERTAIN B RISTOL Colonel of the Yellow .

Calling lately, mum for where,
Basking in an Elbow-Chair,
Gloating on a painted Piece,
Which surpass'd the Works of Greece;
In his own conceited Whim,
(For Caprice is right with him)
Thus, but not in servile Phrase,
I abhor vile cringing Ways;
" Sir, I mean to publish soon,
And I come to ask a Boon,
Let me but enrol your Name,
In my List, 'twill swell my Fame. " —
Gripus star'd, with stupid Eyes,
Testifying blank Surprize,
Low'ring like a wint'ry Sky;
(O! that H OGARTH had been by!)
" What's your Plan? Poetic Stuff!
The World is clogg'd — we've had enough. "
Some Months ago he lik'd my Lines,
When gratis he perus'd the Rhimes;
How alter'd are the present Times!
Well, let it pass — this churlish Elf,
Has my free Leave to keep his Pelf;
I'll give no farther Soul Alarms ,
For who wou'd rouse a Man of Arms?