That much much oaker was on it beftow'd, A face which should he fee (but heaven was kind, Such is our charming Strephon's outward man, His hands and feet are scanning as he walks And all to gain the great Lovifa's grace, That one grain more of each would turn the scale: That he mistakes his talent; all his care So betwixt elegy and ode we fee Strephon is in a course of poetry: This is the man ordain'd to do thee good, Strephon's a very dragon at his pen; His brother murder'd, and his mother's whor'd, His mistress loft, and yet his pen's his sword. |