A MOMENT's patience, gentle Mistris Anne! (But stint your clack for sweet S Charitie) 'Tis Willy begs, once a right proper Man, Tho' now a Book, and interleav'd, you see. Much have I born from canker'd Critick's spite, From fumbling Baronets, and Poets small, Pert Barristers, & Parsons nothing bright: But, what awaits me now, is worst of all! 'Tis true, our Master's temper natural Was fashion'd fair in meek & dovelike guise: But may not honey's self be turn'd to gall By residence, by marriage, & sore eyes? If then he wreak on me his wicked will: Steal to his closet at the hour of prayer, And (when thou hear'st the organ piping shrill) Grease his best pen, & all he scribbles, tear. Better to bottom tarts & cheesecakes nice, Better the roast-meat from the fire to save, Better be twisted into caps for spice, Than thus be patch'd, & cobbled in one's grave! So York shall taste, what Clou"et never knew; So from our works sublimer fumes shall rise: While Nancy earns the praise to Shakespear due For glorious puddings, & immortal pies. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GETHSEMANE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOMESDAY BOOK: CHARLES WARREN, THE SHERIFF by EDGAR LEE MASTERS CLOTHES by JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER THE MEDAL; A SATIRE AGAINST SEDITION by JOHN DRYDEN THE STORY OF AUGUSTUS WHO WOULD NOT HAVE ANY SOUP by HEINRICH HOFFMANN POETASTER: SONG (4) by BEN JONSON THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 90. 'RETRO ME, SATHANA!' by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI |