| Citation |
AWM.726.001a
18-25 Jan 1726:32 (318)
TO S.K.
Vainest of mortals crub thy mad carreer,
Thou finish'd piece of pride, without a peer.
Must all the world ---- must men of each degree,
Like tennis balls, be tost about by thee?
Must all religion now be trampl'd down,
T' enlarge the space for monsters of thy own?
. . . [32 lines]
Thy rhymes, tho' rougher than Pololian bears,
All men shall call the music of the spheres.
The wind and stink, the T--ds, and F--ts that shine
Though thy rich works, in ev'ry radiant line,
To all Arabian odours we'll prefer,
Spikenard and cassia, frankincense and myrrh,
The more prepost'rous all thy themes appear
The deeper myst'ries we'll imagine there.
. . . [41 more lines]
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