Classic Poem

To you, whose virtues l must own
With shame, I have too lately known;
To you, by art and nature taught
To be the man I long have sought,
Had not ill fate, perverse and blind,
Placed you in life too far behind;
Or what I should repine at more,
Placed me in life too far before;
To you the muse this verse bestows,
Which might as well have been in prose;
No thought, no fancy, no sublime,
But simple topics told in rhyme.

Three gifts for conversation fit
Are humour, raillery and wit:
The last, as boundless as the wind,
Is well conceived though not defined;
For, sure, by wit is only meant
Applying what we first invent:
What humour is, not all the tribe
Of logic-mongers can describe;
Here, only nature acts her part,
Unhelped by practice, books, or art.
For wit and humour differ quite,
That gives surprise, and this delight:
Humour is odd, grotesque, and wild,
Only by affectation spoiled,
'Tis never by invention got,
Men have it when they know it not.

Our conversation to refine
True humour must with wit combine;
From both, we learn to rally well;
Wherein French writers most excel:
Voiture in various lights displays
That irony which turns to praise;
His genius first found out the rule
For an obliging ridicule:
He flatters with peculiar air
The brave, the witty, and the fair;
And fools would fancy he intends
A satire where he most commends.

But as a poor pretending beau
Because he fain would make a show,
Nor can afford to buy gold lace,
Takes up with copper in the place;
So, the pert dunces of mankind
Whene'er they would be thought refined,
Because the difference lies abstruse
'Twixt raillery and gross abuse,
To show their parts, will scold and rail,
Like porters o'er a pot of ale.

Such is that clan of boisterous bears
Always together by the ears;
Shrewd fellows, and arch wags, a tribe
That meet for nothing but to gibe;
Who first run one another down,
And then fall foul on all the town;
Skilled in the horse-laugh and dry rub,
And called by excellence, 'the Club':
I mean your Butler, Dawson, Carr,
All special friends, and always jar.

The mettled and the vicious steed
Do not more differ in their breed,
Nay, Voiture is as like Tom Leigh,
As rudeness is to repartee.

If what you said, I wish unspoke,
'Twill not suffice, it was a joke.
Reproach not though in jest a friend
For those defects he cannot mend;
His lineage, calling, shape or sense
If named with scorn, gives just offence.

What use in life, to make men fret?
Part in worse humour than they met?
Thus all society is lost,
Men laugh at one another's cost;
And half the company is teased
That came together to be pleased:
For all buffoons have most in view
To please themselves by vexing you.

When jests are carried on too far,
And the loud laugh proclaims the war;
You keep your countenance for shame
Yet still you think your friend to blame.
And though men cry, they love a jest,
'Tis but when others stand the test,
For would you have their meaning known?
They love a jest--when 'tis their own.

You wonder now to see me write
So gravely, where the subject's light.
Some part of what I here design
Regards a friend of yours and mine,
Who full of humour, fire and wit,
Not always judges what is fit;
But loves to take prodigious rounds,
And sometimes walks beyond his bounds.
You must, although the point be nice,
Venture to give him some advice.
Few hints from you will set him right,
And teach him how to be polite.
Let him, like you, observe with care
Whom to be hard on, whom to spare:
Nor indiscreetly to suppose
All subjects like Dan Jackson's nose.
To study the obliging jest,
By reading those who teach it best.
For prose, I recommend Voiture's,
For verse, (I speak my judgement) yours:
He'll find the secret out from thence
To rhyme all day without offence;
And I no more shall then accuse
The flirts of his ill-mannered muse.

If he be guilty, you must mend him,
If he be innocent, defend him.