Classic Poem

As Debtors, who ne'r pay great Debts, (we see)
To small will punctual, for their Credit, be;
That they may be more trusted by their Friend,
When to his Kindness they'd again pretend:
So shorter had your bounteous Letter been,
You my Return to that e'er this had seen;
But great Trusts, make Bankrupts of Honest Men;
Your too great Trust, 'twas caus'd my Breach of Trust,
I, had my Debt been less, had been more just;
Your Letter might be its own Answer; for,
To read soon, 'twas too much to answer more;
Your Letter, fill'd with Ingenuity,
So best might answer its own self, that I,
To so much cou'd not answer suddenly;
'Twas so profuse, in Wit and Compliment,
That my Return to it, it does prevent;
So that I, to show to you more my Wit,
Shou'd take more Time yet, to reply to it;
Then, for my making no Returns to you,
You can't complain with any Reason, who,
Choak with your Plenty; as the Farmer's Grain,
Too thick sown, makes less his Returns again;
Your Wit profuse, retards more my Reply,
Your Rich Phrase, makes my Stile's Sterility;
You send me such a mighty Store of Wit,
That you have left me none to answer it:
'Tis, like your Country-Presents, large and free,
Profusely lavish; to which, likewise we,
Like Cockneys, in Returns must scanty be;
Like City-Bart'ring-Gratitude, so mine,
Seems a Return, but to get more of thine:
Therefore, with selfish Gratitude, (my Friend!)
My Letter, to get more of yours, I send,
And sooner of it here now make an End;
That I may, to my Satisfaction, see
A longer, yet more speedily, from thee;
As needy Debtors, run too much o'th' Score,
Repay a little, but to borrow more.