Classic Poem

Must I then passive stand! and can I hear
The Man I Love, abus'd, and yet forbear?
Yet much I thank thy Favour to my Friend,
'Twas some Remorse thou didst not him commend.
Thou dost not all my Indignation raise,
For I prefer thy Pity to thy Praise;

In vain thou woud'st thy Name, dull Pedant, hide,
There's not a Line but smells of thy Cheapside ,
If Caesar's Bounty for your Trash you've shar'd,
You're not the first Assassine he has spar'd.
His Mercy, not his Justice, made thee Knight.
Which P — rt — r may demand with equal Right.

Well may'st thou think an useless Talent Wit,
Thou who without it hast three Poems Writ:
Impenetrably dull, secure thou'rt found,
And can'st receive no more, than give a Wound;
Then, scorn'd by all, to some dark Corner fly,
And in Lethargic Trance expiring lie,
Till thou from injur'd G — rth thy Cure receive,
And S — — — d only Absolution give.