[On Returning a Newspaper.]
Your News and Review, sir.
I’ve read through and through, sir,
With little admiring or blaming;
The Papers are barren
Of home-news or foreign,
No murders or rapes worth the naming.
Our friends, the Reviewers,
Those chippers and hewers,
Are judges of mortar and stone, sir;
But of meet or unmeet,
In a fabric complete,
I’ll boldly pronounce they are none, sir;
My goose-quill too rude is
To tell all your goodness
Bestow’d on your servant, the Poet;
Would to God I had one
Like a beam of the sun,
And then all the world, sir, should know it!