LIE, Philo, untouched on my peaceable shelf; Nor take it amiss, that so little I heed thee: I've no envy to thee, and some love to myself: Then why should I answer, since first I must read thee? Drunk with Helicon's waters and double brewed bub, Be a linguist, a poet, a critic, a wag; To the solid delight of thy well-judging club; To the damage alone of thy bookseller Brag. Pursue me with satire: what harm is there in 't? But from all viva voce reflection forbear; There can be no danger from what thou shalt print: There may be a little from what thou mayest swear. ON THE SAME PERSON. WHILE, faster than his costive brain indites, Philo's quick hand in flowing letters writes; His case appears to me like honest Teague's, When he was run away with, by his legs. Phoebus, give Philo o'er himself command; Quicken his senses, or restrain his hand; Let him be kept from paper, pen, and ink: So may he cease to write, and learn to think. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CITY TREES by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY A VOICE PROPHETIC by WALT WHITMAN THE TRAGEDY by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE RWOSE IN THE DARK by WILLIAM BARNES THE BOAST OF THE TIDES by WILLIAM ROSE BENET NEW ENGLAND'S GROWTH by WILLIAM BRADFORD TWO GARDENIAS by BEULAH JACKSON CHARMLEY FRUITIONLESS by INA DONNA COOLBRITH RESOLUTION OF A POETICAL QUESTION CONCERNING FOUR RURAL SISTERS: 1 by CHARLES COTTON |