Classic Poem

They say that out of pure Ill-Nature
Crito has lately wrote a Satire ;
On me too — That the silly Elf
Should be forgetful of Himself!

Satire 's a very dangerous thing,
And often wears a double Sting;
And tho' it chance to lose its Aim,
It seldom fails in getting Game.
So Gun enrag'd to miss the Black-bird,
Recoiling, knocks poor Lobcock backward.

But Crito tells me, full of Choler,
He'as drawn me in my proper-Colour ;
I thank him for his merry Whim,
And fain, would do the same by him;
But hang it tho, 'tis cursed Cost,
To daub an Ass on every Post!
But all consider'd tho', I think
I'ad e'en as good take up with Ink:
On second Thoughts too, cause 'tis black,
It seems the very thing I lack,
For I am apt to think his Soul
Is somewhat darker than a Coal.

But yet, old Boy, I see in spight
Of all your forc'd ill-natur'd Wit,
The very self-same thing you strive at;
The very End and Aim you drive at:
But faith I han't Time, tho' you lack now,
The Favour Dryden did for Flecknoe .
And slily want to steal in Print,
And that I'm sure is all that's in't.

So Country Girl, in Breeding awkard,
Whips up Ralph 's Chair, and tilts him back ward;
Tho' all the while she means no Hurt,
And does it, as she says, for Sport:
Ay, ay, but if I rightly guess,
Her Sport, summ'd up, amounts to this;
That she, in jest , may teach the Clown
To throw herself in earnest down.