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 iambics 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 harbour;
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 you next your 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,
While he's no longer man.

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,
That 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,
When 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 must wear the breeches:
So shall you wear the laurel crown,
Win it and wear it, 'tis your own;
The poet's only riches.