Classic Poem

Dear Tom,
Can you furnish a quondam friend with a decent scarf? It is olim felicis Doctoris, nec non amici charissimi, petitio . In our former acquaintance nunquam non paratus , was the answer when Tom Jones was solicited for any Favour by his Friends; how it is now, the bearer will inform,
Yours, &c.
L. H
Chaplains , 'tis said, are drest by halves
Whose GOWNS are unadorn'd with SCARVES ,
And if oblig'd to wait at court:
Are ev'ry fribbling brother 's sport,
How miserable then am I,
Quite scarfless , and no crop to buy?
The Mealman Sunday last interr'd,
Will make the boon with ease conferr'd,
You see in prose and verse I try,
To melt you down, if you deny,
May Coleman Church refuse the slave,
Who can ungratefully behave;
Nor will he get St. Bennet Sherehog ,
Who can be such a very queer dog .

There was a time, you know it well,
In dress when none could me excel.
No bishop then appear'd more spruce,
Nor was I loaded with abuse;
But now their squibs and jokes they scatter,
And every fool of me can chatter;
Even those who are not worth a crown,
When debts are paid, will run me down .

But mind my hint, my place at Court ,
Let me not be a page 's sport;
A grinning M — — of H — — 's jest,
Says — LOOK MISS C H — D — Y , at that priest ,
Methinks I heard her kindly say,
'Tis true , he wears no P ADUSOY ;
Perhaps 'tis want of friends not merit
Makes him so poor in gown and spirit ;
His virtue may, perhaps, be great
As those in better garb who wait ,
See MISS how humble in his mien,
Was he stall fed , how sleek , how clean ,
How many compliments from you,
Good Mr. Dean , how do you do?
With glossy scarf did he but rustle,
Amongst his breth'ren how he'd bustle.
I think it would be meritorious
To guard him from a world censorious;
What would not smiles and courtsies do
From girls of consequence like you?
He regularly comes to pray ,
And does his duty well as they,
But fortune is, my dear, the thing,
Whence court civility 's must spring:
Thus she attack the S ISTERHOOD ,
For to distress, she's always good.
And where so fair a form is join'd,
To such nobility of mind;
No sparkling gems, nor birth-day dress,
Claim greater honour and address.

The scarf , my friend, then quickly send
The scarf which will so much commend;
The scarf , my boy, the scarf 's the thing,
The pretty, dang'ling, silken string,
Which neatly plaited on the shoulder,
Like brandy makes us preach the bolder .
A scarf , dear Tommy, gives us fire,
The doctor's scarf they all admire.
A starve-gut curate makes 'em sick;
But when a Doctor , fat and sleek,
The rostrum mounts, no man will grumble,
He safely may his nonsense mumble.

A scarf 's my hobby-horse you see,
Then send it dearest Tom to me ;
You know, Sir, I can scold and mob,
Should you refuse this little job.
Send me the scarf, or t'other thing,
Ribband , or picture of the king ,
Not Lilliputian scrap of guinea ,
The little quarter pickaninny ,
A whole one Sir, I hope he'll bring,
To buy this dignifying thing .
If not your grave and solemn face ,
Your crouds and spectacles of grace;
Are of religion only features ,
Without a hurt to fellow creatures;
Especially a brother parson
So what is great don't make a farce on .