Classic Poem

A grave physician, used to write for fees,
And spoil no paper, but with recipes,
Is now turned poet, rails against all wit,
Except that little found among the great;
As if he thought true wit and sense were tied
To men in place, like avarice, or pride.
But in their praise, so like a quack he talks,
You'd swear he wanted for his Christmas-box.
With mangled names old stories he pollutes,
And to the present time past actions suits;
Amazed we find, in ev'ry page he writes,
Members of Parliament with Arthur's knights.
It is a common pastime to write ill;
And doctor, with the rest, e'en take thy fill;
Thy satire's harmless: 'Tis thy prose that kills,
When thou prescribst thy potions and thy pills.
Go on brave doctor, a third volume write,
And find us paper while you make us sh — .