Classic Poem

Shou'd I tell my Basina what Luck I have had,
She'd conclude I was either romantick or mad!
For surely such Loads of impertinent Ware,
Don't usually fall to one Animal's Share.
The Subject and Style are both dull I declare it,
Yet as you're a Friend you must patiently bear it:
For why shou'd I silently cherish my Grief,
When you are oblig'd to contribute Relief.

To proceed then in Order my Troubles to shew,
I'll wave the prime Visit, for Precedence due,
And begin with a wonderful primitive Blade,
Who tho' noble by Birth, yet writes for a Trade:
He dresses in Print, and his Features are fine,
Which by Help of Cosmeticks, most radiantly shine.
Yet he scorns all Perfume, except Essence of Toes,
And diffuses a Sickness wherever he goes.
But not to detain you with more of this Creature,
Whose languishing Eyes express his good Nature:
I'll give you his Picture in Miniature drawn,
Exact to the Life, tho' before he was born.
" Suffenus whom you know, the witty,
" The gay the talkative and pretty:
" And all his Wonders to rehearse,
" The Thing which writes a World of Verse.
" I'm certain I should not belie him,
" To say he has some Thousands by him.
" Yet none deform'd with critick Blot,
" Or wrote on Vellum to rub out.
" Royal Paper, scarlet Strings,
" Gilded Backs, and such fine Things:
" But when you read 'em, then the witty,
" The gay Suffenus and the pretty;
" Is the dullest heaviest Clown,
" So alter'd he can scarce be known.
" Strange that he, who but just now,
" Cou'd so flatter cringe and bow,
" Shou'd be so ungentile a Wight,
" Whenever he attempts to write.
" And yet the Wretch is ne'er so pleas'd,
" As when he's with this Madness seiz'd.
This Mirrour of Bards (you must know by the Way)
After seventy Moons came a Visit to pay;
But I found it was more to my Books than my self,
For he wanted to borrow the best on the Shelf.
I said I'de not venture one Book out of Sight,
But I'd lend him a Pen, if he pleas'd for to write
My motion accepted, the Poet sat down,
But instead of transcribing, commended his own.
" Look Madam, quoth he, what a cursed Translation,
" Old Jack was the tediousest Dog in the Nation,
" Here's two Lines of Virgil spun out into seven,
" And five of the Latin drawn into eleven.
" Oh Phaeh;us! Oh Muses! what Fustian is here?
" I'll have Patience no longer, no longer forbear;
" But print my own Works to confute this damn'd Vice,
" For my Version's exact, and Expression concise.
" My Poem's Heroick, and the Bulk is so large,
" 'Twill cost me some Hundreds the Press to discharge,
" Seven Years have I toil'd to make the Piece fine,
" And labour'd more hard than a Slave in a Mine:
" But now it is perfect, I'll bring it to Morrow
" And read it you all — thought I, to my Sorrow.
To escape this Tormentor no Way cou'd I find,
Had not Fortune been more than expectedly kind.
For before the dread Hour he did me the Favour
To acquaint me his Honour was ill of a Feavour.

This News had scarce banish'd my former Affright,
When appear'd to my View a more terrible Spright,
With Countenance meagre, and amorous Eyes,
A dismal Complexion, and sable Disguise:
Who sitting down by me with sorrowful Air,
And Sighs which at once shew'd both Love and Despair:
Began a long Chat, and, in spight of the Weather,
Held uninterrupted five Hours together:
I pretended to sleep, and seem'd tired enough,
But the Nymph being Proof against any Rebuff,
From my Chair to the Window I carelessly flung,
In hopes to be safe from the Shot of her Tongue;
Yet her shrill second Treble still merrily rung.
She complain'd she was Deaf, I had wish'd my self such,
But that I concluded the Ransome too much:
So I patiently bore what I cou'd not avoid,
Till one Story my Faculty passive destroy'd.
Good Madam Colindra, (for so was she hight)
Is there none that expect you at Supper to Night?
" That I am not engag'd upon Honour is true,
" But were I, there's none that shou'd draw me from you.
Alas then sigh'd I! 'tis most surely my Fate
To be prated to Death, either early or late.
However, one Project I'll try for my Life,
And if that does miscarry, I'll yield without Strife.
To bring her on Part of her Way, was my Proffer;
Nor could she refuse so courteous an Offer.
I led her, indeed, thro' Streets but a few,
Before I pretended I'd somewhat to do — —
" I'm idle, quoth she, and will guard you from Danger.
Oh Madam! forbear, I mayn't carry a Stranger;
The Lady is sick, and you know such Occasions
Permit none to visit but Friends and Relations.
At Length with much seeming Regret we did part,
And if I may guess, 'twas with sorrowful Heart,
For I strictly took Care, not to give an Occasion
Of naming your Curate, or venting her Passion.
To divert this Fatigue, and unbend my dull Mind,
I then paid my Respects to the Lady design'd;
Whose Virtue, good Humour, and elegant Wit,
Might atone for all Faults that her Sex can commit:
But, alas! I found with her a voluble Creature,
Who'd Abundance of Wit, but a World of ill Nature:
Her Talent was Railing, she us'd it at Will,
And Nature supply'd the Deficience of Skill.
As a Pipe that's unstop'd lets out Water with Force,
So fast ran her Words, so impetuous their Course.
From Prince unto Peasant, from Dutchess to Citt;
Not one could be nam'd, but made Sport for her Wit:
Their Intrigues, howe'er private, expos'd to our View,
And the secret Memoirs of each Family knew.
Having rallied the Living, she set on the Dead,
And without e'er a Book, whole Paragraphs read,
From Plato and Plutarch, from Sidney and Bacou,
And Utopia it self to Pieces was taken:
From thence she proceeded to sonorous Verse,
And for three tedious Hours did nought but rehearse;
For her Garb, and her Mein, bespoke Silence as due,
And her Countenance look'd of a cholerick Hue.
The Lady, my Friend, seem'd uneasy as I,
And Abundance of Motions and Looks did we try;
But while she repeated, she'd take no Denial,
And the Duce of a Pause would she make for a Trial.
Having tired our Patience, at last she got up,
Releas'd our poor Ears, and adjusted her Crup;
And then with a swift diving Curt'sey and Bow,
Swum out of the Parlour, we scarcely knew how.
To tell you the Truth, I staid little behind,
For I knew not what other Mishaps I might find;
But with Wings at my Heels, to my Home I made Haste,
And resolve to keep close, 'till the Danger is past:
For 'tis plain, my cross Stars, an ill Influence shed,
And malevolent Beams are now aim'd at my Head.