Classic Poem

Great Sir, than Phoebus more divine,
Whose verses far his rays outshine,
Look down upon your quondam foe;
O! Let me never write again
If e'er I disoblige you, Dean,
Should you compassion show.

Take those invectives which I wrote
When anger made me piping hot,
And give them to your cook
To singe your fowl or save your paste
The next time when you have a feast;
They'll save you many a book.

To burn them you are not content;
I give you then my free consent
To sink them in the harbor;
If not, they'll serve to set off blocks,
To roll on pipes, and twist in locks,
So give them to your barber.

Or when that next you physic take,
I must entreat you then to make
A proper application;
'Tis what I've done myself before
With Dan's fine thoughts and many more
Who gave me provocation.

What cannot mighty anger do?
It makes the weak the strong pursue,
A goose attack a swan;
It makes a woman tooth and nail
Her husband's hands and face assail
Or tap him with her fan.

Though some, we find, are more discreet,
Before the world are wondrous sweet,
And let their husbands hector;
But when the world's asleep, they wake;
Then is the time they choose to speak:
Witness the curtain lecture.

Such was the case with you, I find:
All day you could conceal your mind,
But when St. Patrick's chimes
Awaked your Muse (my midnight curse
Which I engaged for better for worse),
You scolded with your rhymes.

Have done! Have done! I quit the field;
To you, as to my wife, I yield:
As she does wear the breeches,
So shall you wear the laurel crown;
Win it and wear it, 'tis your own,
And all the poet's riches.