Classic Poem

Since there are people who complain
There's too much satire in my vein,
That I am often found exceeding
The rules of raillery and breeding,
With too much freedom treat my betters,
Not sparing even men of letters,
You, who are skilled in lawyer's lore,
What's your advice? shall I give o'er,
Nor ever fools or knaves expose
Either in verse or humorous prose,
And, to avoid all future ill,
In my scrutoire lock up my quill?

friend: Since you are pleased to condescend
To ask the judgement of a friend,
Your case considered, I must think
You should withdraw from pen and ink,
Forbear your poetry and jokes,
And live like other Christian folks;
Or if the muses must inspire
Your fancy with their pleasing fire,
Take subjects safer for your wit
Than those on which you lately writ,
Commend the times, your thoughts correct
And follow the prevailing sect,
Assert that Hyde in writing story
Shows all the malice of a Tory,
While Burnet in his deathless page
Discovers freedom without rage;
To Woolston recommend our youth
For learning, probity, and truth,
That noble genius, who unbinds
The chains which fetter free-born minds,
Redeems us from the slavish fears
Which lasted near two thousand years,
He can alone the priesthood humble,
Make gilded spires and altars tumble.

swift: Must I commend against my conscience
Such stupid blasphemy and nonsense?
To such a subject tune my lyre
And sing like one of Milton's choir,
Where devils to a vale retreat
And call the laws of wisdom fate,
Lament upon their hapless fall
That force free virtue should enthral?
Or, shall the charms of wealth and power
Make me pollute the muses' bower?

friend: As from the tripod of Apollo
Hear from my desk the words that follow;
Some by philosophers misled,
Must honour you alive and dead,
And such as know what Greece has writ
Must taste your irony and wit,
While most that are or would be great,
Must dread your pen, your person hate,
And you on Drapier's Hill must lie,
And there without a mitre die.