An Epistle To Robert Lloyd, Esq.

Tis not that I design to rob     Thee of thy birthright, gentle Bob,     For thou art born sole heir, and single,     Of dear Mat Priors easy jingle;     Not that I mean, while thus I knit     My threadbare sentiments together,     To show my genius or my wit,     When God and you know I have neither;     Or such as might be better shown     By letting poetry alone.     Tis not with either of these views     That I presumed to address the muse:     But to divert a fierce banditti     (Sworn foes to every thing thats witty!)     That, with a black, infernal train,     Make cruel inroads in my brain,     And daily threaten to drive thence     My little garrison of sense;     The fierce banditti which I mean     Are gloomy thoughts led on by spleen.     Then theres another reason yet,     Which is, that I may fairly quit     The debt, which justly became due     The moment when I heard from you;     And you might grumble, crony mine,     If paid in any other coin;     Since twenty sheets of lead, God knows     (I would say twenty sheets of prose),     Can neer be deemd worth half so much     As one of gold, and yours was such.     Thus, the preliminaries settled,     I fairly find myself pitchkettled,[1]     And cannot see, though few see better,     How I shall hammer out a letter.     First, for a thoughtsince all agree     A thoughtI have itlet me see     Tis gone againplague ont! I thought     I had itbut I have it not.     Dame Gurton thus, and Hodge her son,     That useful thing, her needle, gone!     Rake well the cinderssweep the floor,     And sift the dust behind the door;     While eager Hodge beholds the prize     In old grimalkins glaring eyes;     And Gammer finds it, on her knees,     In every shining straw she sees.     This simile were apt enough;     But Ive another, critic-proof!     The virtuoso thus, at noon,     Broiling beneath a July sun,     The gilded butterfly pursues,     Oer hedge and ditch, through gaps and mews;     And, after many a vain essay,     To captivate the tempting prey,     Gives him at length the lucky pat,     And has him safe beneath his hat:     Then lifts it gently from the ground;     But, ah! tis lost as soon as found;     Culprit his liberty regains,     Flits out of sight, and mocks his pains.     The sense was dark; twas therefore fit     With simile to illustrate it;     But as too much obscures the sight,     As often as too little light,     We have our similes cut short,     For matters of more grave import.     That Matthews numbers run with ease,     Each man of common sense agrees!     All men of common sense allow     That Roberts lines are easy too:     Where then the preference shall we place,     Or how do justice in this case?     Matthew (says Fame), with endless pains     Smoothd and refined the meanest strains;     Nor sufferd one ill-chosen rhyme     To escape him at the idlest time;     And thus oer all a lustre cast,     That, while the language lives shall last.     Ant please your ladyship (quoth I),     For tis my business to reply;     Sure so much labour, so much toil,     Bespeak at least a stubborn soil:     Theirs be the laurel-wreath decreed,     Who both write well, and write full speed!     Who throw their Helicon about     As freely as a conduit spout!     Friend Robert, thus like chien savant     Lets fall a poem en passant,     Nor needs his genuine ore refine     Tis ready polishd from the mine.