Classic Poem

The low-brow'd muse , that gives malignance birth,
As oft excites our anger , as our mirth ;
For gen'rous hearts would, usefully , correct,
Nor spare the fault , but still the man respect.
Touch'd, by a rev'rence, to the species due,
Fain would they laugh , without despising , too.
Rash, and by no such soft impressions, aw'd,
The scurril witling spreads his joke too broad:
Straining at humour , lets discernment fall,
And laughs at all, by turns, to laugh with all.
Not so, thy guardian scene — whose manlier end
Warring, on guilt — would innocence defend:
From the false Rover , strips his am'rous art,
That his true form may fright the fair one's heart ,
And rescued beauty be, by one man, drest,
In arms of temper'd proof , against the rest.

The Loom thus fine , how hadst thou weav'd amiss,
To thread coarse laughter , thro' a theme , like this!
'Twere an affront to woman's worth! for here ,
Not to be grave , were — not to be sincere .
Nor, let the taste of fools betray the wise,
A cheap applause, before a just , to prize.
Oft we approve , where, but to smile we seem;
But where we laugh the most, we least esteem .
This, the deserving purpose of thy play,
Compels a stranger's grateful verse, to say,
Who felt the pleasure, thousands soon will feel,
And judg'd it mean , that pleasure to conceal .