Reverend Mr. M---w F----h,
In Commendation of his Speech.
WEre I, dear M-----w, who am none,
The greateſt Poet of this Town,
Thy Panegyrick ſhou'd appear,
As bright as Phœbus, and as clear ;
But Pardon, if by Zeal too warm,
I ſtrive like thee, and can't perform :
This t' a Friend's enough t' excuſe,
The poor Performance of my Muſe.
Aſſiſt thou brighteſt of the Nine,
If dull, the Fault ſhall not be mine ;
What can I do more than beſpeak you ?
If you won't come, the Dev'l take you.
No not an Inch, replys Thalia,
Not one of us will e'er come nigh ye,
We love to come where Praiſe is due,
What need you make ſo much ado
About a Speech Laborious prating,
Wrapt up in Ciceronian Latin ;
Which looks as monſtrous as an Λpe
Involv'd in Robes of Prince ; whoſe Shape
Diſcovers more it's Uglineſs,
The more illuſtrious is it's Dreſs,
You've read of the Cumean Aſs,
That for a Lyon needs wou'd paſs,
So wrapt within a Lyon's Skin,
He did his beſt to roar and grin,
And made the Country Folks afraid,
' Till the poor Ignoramus Bray'd,
And for his Bullying was paid.
The Cafe in hand is juſt the fame,
Was n't M------w Fr---ch as much to blame,
To ſteal from 'Iully with ſuch Pains ?
And borrow's Tongue, without his Brains.
The Soul of Speaking, is fine Senſe,
'Tis this alone can influence
The Hearers Mind, not ſtudy'd Phraſ s,
Which only vulgar Ears amazes.
Thus the R-----r ſpeaking loud,
With bombaſt captivate to the Crowd :
And B----ck too, we often ſee,
Sets off, by Words, his Sophiſtry ;
Or how cou'd he make Men conſent,
To rail 'gainſt Church and Government ?
Well dear Thalia, let this paſs us,
No Politicks from Mount Parnaſſus
I now require, but prithee tell,
Did n't F----- commend his Grace fu l well?
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