Naked and half-burnt Hills with hideous Wreck
Affright the Skies, and fry the Ocean's Back.
As he went rumbling on, the Fury strait
Crawl'd in, her Limbs cou'd scarce support her Weight.
A rufull Rag her meager Forehead bound,
And faintly her furr'd Lips these Accents found.
Mortal, how dar'st thou with such Lines address
My awful Seat, and trouble my Recess?
In Essex Marshy Hundreds is a Cell,
Where lazy Fogs, and drisling Vapours dwell:
Thither raw Damps on drooping Wings repair,
And shiv'ring Quartans shake the sickly Air.
There, when fatigu'd, some silent Hours I pass,
And substitute Physicians in my place.
Then dare not, for the future once rehearse
The Dissonance of such untuneful Verse.
But in your Lines let Energy be found,
And learn to rise in Sense, and sink in Sound.
Harsh Words, tho' pertinent, uncouth appear,
None please the Fancy who offend the Ear.
In Sense and Numbers if you wou'd excel,
Read W———, consider D———n well.
In one, what vig'rous Turns of Fancy shine,
In th'other, Syrens warble in each Line.
D———'s sprightly Muse but touch the Lyre,
The Smiles and Graces melt in soft Desire,
And little Loves confess their am'rous Fire.
The gentle Isis claims the Ivy Crown,
To bind th'immortal Brows of A———n.
Page:The dispensary - a poem in six canto's (sic) (IA b30356775).pdf/70
46
The Dispensary.
As
