Classic Poem

The Rivals

Men who are out hate those in play,
A case which happens every day;
'Tis worse to lose that very place
Another fills, and that's our case.
The Dean, who realms of wit commands,
Like most wise monarchs changes hands;
'Mongst all his subjects picks and chooses
His ministers, as each of use is;
And as he smiles, or frowns, his features
Are joy or grief to all his creatures.
T — l would feign at court appear
For what he loves abroad, good cheer.
The Dean in frolic would receive him,
And what he came for freely give him.
He let him sit with Men of Letters,
And prate sometimes before his betters;
Would suffer him from three to six,
At proper times, to show his tricks;
Would overhear his Point of War
[Of all his tricks the best by far);
Bestowed him many a joke and quibble;
At length he licensed him to scribble;
And in his works, to lend him fame,
Here used his wit, and there his phlegm.
Vain of these plumes, he knew were borrowed,
The giddy soul grew wondrous forward,
Libelled the Dean, and so repaid
What in his service he had made,
And, prone of old to factious courses,
Now levies independent forces.
With arms not his he issues forth,
Declares for Empire in the North;
There utters in imperial strain
Wit which he pilfered from the Dean.
The Dean, his court and hands to clear
Of this poor upstart mutineer,
Pronounced in council his disgrace,
And Tom the Punster begged his place,
And hence arose a furious scold
'Twixt the new fav'rite and the old.
The war broke out in words and looks,
Then grew the battle of the books;
But those who knew these weapons cried,
" There's no great odds on either side. "
And as old heroes in the field
Would change their helmet, sword and shield,
And then fall to, to cause disasters,
And make men's arms annoy their masters;
Just so these wits each other gore
With books which hurt them both before.
Books have knack 'bove other things
To wound, although they have no stings;
For they their writers, some allege,
Hurt more for want of point or edge.
T — l in wrath and his worst gown
Marched slow, with his whole wife, to town;
It happened both were near their times,
She big with child, and he with rhymes;
For he begets a various brood,
Both boys and verse, in heat of blood.
So have I seen a bramble bend
And hide in earth its upper end,
Which taking root it could not fail
At once to sprout at head and tail.
Tom, though he little feared the matter,
Was rudely used by T — l's satire,
But bearing up at all adventures
Was no more hurt than — the Dissenters.
English