  By James Stawpert. Who’s he that with great Mercury strides, In imitation’s line, And, without reason, thus derides The poets of the Tyne? Who, not content with critic’s skill, That lets no error pass; In passion’s cup he dips his quill, And calls his brother—ass. I tell thee, Satirist, forbear, For asses have a trick, And, if provok’d, ’tis very rare They’re not inclin’d to kick. Now should great Fate ordain it so, That this poor docile beast, Whom thou hast term’d so very low, E’en lowest of the least: I say, should ancient Baalam’s steed, (For so thou nam’st the man) Tell thee in time to take good heed, Thy manners rough to scan; Or if, like thee, he write with ire, And ask in angry strains, What set thy sleepy muse on fire, Or rous’d thy muddy brains? Nay further, should he analize The words “Oxygen Gas,” He might make thee a monst’rous size, E’en, larger than an ass! The thought will no great time afford, Nor needs much Orthodox, For, take four letters from the word, It makes thee out an OX. I think the appellation suits, Yet this believe from me, Had thou not been so fond of brutes, I’d not made one of thee. Adieu then, ancient Egypt’s god, Or shall I call thee bull? When next thou handles Satyr’s rod, Pray write thy name in full. For two initials, such as thine, Might make dame dullness pause, And simple poets of the Tyne, Find terms in Nature’s laws. By adding letters to the two Which thou hast late put down; No, faith, I have not time just now, And Modesty might frown. |
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