As Jove will not attend on less, When things of more importance press: You can't, grave sir, believe it hard, That you, a low Hibernian bard, Should cool your heels a while, and wait Unanswer'd at your patron's gate; And would my lord vouchsafe to grant This one poor humble boon I want, Free leave to play his secretary, As Falstaff acted old king Harry;[1] I'd tell of yours in rhyme and print, Folks shrug, and cry, "There's nothing in't." And, after several readings over, It shines most in the marble cover. How could so fine a taste dispense With mean degrees of wit and sense? Nor will my lord so far beguile The wise and learned of our isle; To make it pass upon the nation, By dint of his sole approbation. The task is arduous, patrons find, To warp the sense of all mankind: Who think your Muse must first aspire, Ere he advance the doctor higher. You've cause to say he meant you well: That you are thankful, who can tell? For still you're short (which grieves your spirit) Of his intent: you mean your merit. Ah! _quanto rectius, tu adepte, Qui nil moliris tarn inepte_?[2] Smedley,[3] thou Jonathan of Clogher, "When thou thy humble lay dost offer To Grafton's grace, with grateful heart, Thy thanks and verse devoid of art: Content with what his bounty gave, No larger income dost thou crave." But you must have cascades, and all Iërne's lake, for your canal, Your vistoes, barges, and (a pox on All pride!) our speaker for your coxon:[4] It's pity that he can't bestow you Twelve commoners in caps to row you. Thus Edgar proud, in days of yore,[5] Held monarchs labouring at the oar; And, as he pass'd, so swell'd the Dee, Enraged, as Ern would do at thee. How different is this from Smedley! (His name is up, he may in bed lie) "Who only asks some pretty cure, In wholesome soil and ether pure: The garden stored with artless flowers, In either angle shady bowers: No gay parterre with costly green Must in the ambient hedge be seen; But Nature freely takes her course, Nor fears from him ungrateful force: No shears to check her sprouting vigour, Or shape the yews to antic figure." But you, forsooth, your all must squander On that poor spot, call'd Dell-ville, yonder; And when you've been at vast expenses In whims, parterres, canals, and fences, Your assets fail, and cash is wanting; Nor farther buildings, farther planting: No wonder, when you raise and level, Think this wall low, and that wall bevel. Here a convenient box you found, Which you demolish'd to the ground: Then built, then took up with your arbour, And set the house to Rupert Barber. You sprang an arch which, in a scurvy Humour, you tumbled topsy-turvy. You change a circle to a square, Then to a circle as you were: Who can imagine whence the fund is, That you _quadrata_ change _rotundis_? To Fame a temple you erect, A Flora does the dome protect; Mounts, walks, on high; and in a hollow You place the Muses and Apollo; There shining 'midst his train, to grace Your whimsical poetic place.