LIE, Philo, untouched on my peaceable shelf; Nor take it amiss, that so little I heed thee: I've no envy to thee, and some love to myself: Then why should I answer, since first I must read thee? Drunk with Helicon's waters and double brewed bub, Be a linguist, a poet, a critic, a wag; To the solid delight of thy well-judging club; To the damage alone of thy bookseller Brag. Pursue me with satire: what harm is there in 't? But from all viva voce reflection forbear; There can be no danger from what thou shalt print: There may be a little from what thou mayest swear. ON THE SAME PERSON. WHILE, faster than his costive brain indites, Philo's quick hand in flowing letters writes; His case appears to me like honest Teague's, When he was run away with, by his legs. Phoebus, give Philo o'er himself command; Quicken his senses, or restrain his hand; Let him be kept from paper, pen, and ink: So may he cease to write, and learn to think. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SOLDIER by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON EPISTLE IN FORM OF A BALLAD TO HIS FRIENDS by FRANCOIS VILLON IN TEMPTATION by CHARLES WESLEY RELIGIOUS ISOLATION, TO A REPUBLICAN FRIEND by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE FEAST OF THE DEAD by CHARLOTTE BECKER |