Classic Poem

WHOSE FOIBLE WAS CARRYING HIS JESIS, SOMETIMES, TOO FAR, AND THEREBY WEARING THE SPIRITS OF HIS COMPANY .

Still be your mirth, and pleasant humour shewn,
And let the palm of punning be your own!
But the coarse jest—the interrupting jeer,
Provoking folly's laugh, and wisdom's tear!
Let these no more society offend,
Nor wound the feelings of a partial friend.
Jokes heap'd on jokes, believe me, cease to please,
When they deprive the social board of ease;
And your own heart, with nicest feelings bless'd!
Would sigh to see your friends, like foes, oppress'd.
Though you, like Swift, possess true humour's fire,
Yet, if for ever jesting—Swift would tire;
The mind fatigued, at last, must turn away,
As the eye shuns insufferable day!
Nice is the task to blame without offence,
And he who bears it shews superior sense.
Did I not know your breast by nature kind,
Wit in your head, and virtue in your mind;
Had I not heard your bosom often sigh,
And mark'd the tear of feeling in your eye;
Seen sensibility bedew your cheek,
And nature's workings eloquently speak;
You from this friendly lecture had been free;
Nor had your foible been observ'd by me.
A luke-warm friend I never could endure,
Who sees my errors should point out their cure;
And more than errors, I confess, are mine—
Horatio, be the task to mend them, thine!
To what you say I'll candidly attend,
And in the censor only see the friend.