Classic Poem

Dear Tom,
Nor turkey fat, nor goose from country-hut,
Nor steed when door of stable's left unshut,
Nor silver spoon, nor thimble, bodkin, locket,
Nor watch in fob, nor handkerchief in pocket,
Is oft'ner nimmed, when rogue comes fairly by't,
Than are the rhymes we poets do indite.
With watch by night our cattle we secure,
With sturdy mastiff or well-bolted door;
With arms or craft Sir John marks spoons and knives,
And honest Ralph with husband's name and wife's;
Dick's geese are known by slit between their toes,
And branded buttock sorrel's master shows.
But plag'ary to baulk none could devise;
He locks and bolts and brands and marks defies.
Maugre our utmost care, it does surpass us
To guard th' enclosures we have at Parnassus.
With suchlike fate met Virgil heretofore,
And future ages will the same deplore.
The ravished lock may, ravished once again,
Leave Pope with his Belinda to complain.
And plants which Cowley raised from noblest seeds
Be stole and set among some paltry weeds.
Great Gloucester's Royal Grammar may with slyness
Be cribbed, without permission from his Highness.

When on some piece we've spared nor care nor pains,
Racked every single thought and squeezed our brains,
Till Envy ne'er a fault sees in the whole;
She then gives out, " The composition's stole. "
Or else some pirate of the quill comes on,
Seizes our wares and vends them for his own.
In coin like this have poets oft been paid,
Nor Phoebus' self his dearest sons could aid.

But thee, dear Tom, no like disasters wait;
Thy happier genius laughs at such a fate.
Should Envy now in human shape appear,
Assume the form and meagre cheeks of G — r,
To tell the world Tom Punsibi's a thief,
Full well she knows, she ne'er could gain belief;
She'll now in every place to great and small
Confess that you're a mere original.
Nor need you fear that any can purloin
One page, one thought, one single verse of thine.
Whether you teach us how to Pun by Rule,
Or Punch depute for Master of your school,
Whether y' invite the Dean to eat your pullets,
Or arm the Britons stout with Beggar's Bullets,
Such a peculiar manner and design,
Such strokes, such colors glare in every line,
As prove the hand that touch them to be thine.
Like thine own Caesar thou dost make it known,
That what is thine, dear Tummas, is thy own.