Classic Poem

Suffenus whom you know, the Witty,
The Gay, the Talkative, and Pretty;
And, all his Wonders to rehearse,
The THING which makes a World of Verse,
I'm certain I shou'd not bely him,
To say he has several thousands by him,
Yet none deform'd with Critick blot,
Or wrote on Vellom 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.
This is strange! that he who now
Cou'd so flatter, laugh, and bow,
So much Wit, such breeding show,
Shou'd be so ungenteel a Wight,
Whenever he attempts to write,
And yet the Wretch is ne're so pleas'd,
As when he's with this madness seiz'd.

Faith, Sir, w'are all deceiv'd alike,
All Labour in the same mistake,
Nor is the best of Men so clear
From every Folly, but somewhere
Still the Suffenus will appear.
Quickly we others Errors find,
But see not our own Load behind.