Classic Poem

Too long you've waited, gentle Reader,
But my dull Pate's a sorry Breeder:
And I must own, 'tis with Affliction
That I have publish'd by Subscription.
What Woman cou'd, — I've try'd to do, Sir,
And what's undone, — I leave to you, Sir;
As Critic, or as Friend in Corner,
A second Bays, or Mr. Horner .
But this I'll swear, 'tis true each Tittle;
I never yet, was Mrs. Brittle .

'Twere best you were, cries Jack the Rake,
You lie, dear Jack , I mean — mistake;
Nay where's the Crime, I pray, dear Madam,
'Tis what's practis'd e'er since Adam .
That may be Jack , — but not by me, Sir,
Nor ever shou'd, with Apes like thee, Sir.

Now, Critic's grave, — begin to rattle,
Have at you, — I'm prepar'd for Battle.

Hey Day! what Nonsense here compounded,
Tales, Fables, Songs and Pray'rs, confounded;
Nay Letters too, and Panegyricks:
'Twill give the Reader the Hystericks.

Now Faith, cross Don , I do'nt believe you,
Your convex Glass, doth oft' deceive you.
The World's good-natur'd and will pity
False-concord Words, if Thoughts are witty.
And Critic's Jury, ne'er thou'd pannel
On simple Verse, from Female Channel.
Absurdities in Speech or Writing,
The Author Woman — Men delight in;
For, when the Object is belov'd, Sir,
Her very Foibles are approv'd, Sir.
So, when the lisping Babe's beginning
To coin new Words, the Father grinning;
Repeats to Wife, or Friend for Sterling
The Word, as utter'd by his Darling.
Then make Remark on me, as mild, Sir,
For I, in Sense, — am but a Child, Sir.

But now, ye Fair, whole keener Wit
To torture mine, may yet think fit;
Forbear the cruel Task, and make
The Product shine — for Pity's sake.
Thus, shall the Diamond's Roughness be,
Refin'd, and polished by thee;
And it's Defects, skreen'd by your Beauty;
The Men shall Praise; — because their Duty.