[An EPISTOLARY
ESSAY
From M.G. to O.B.
Upon their mutual POEMS.]
Dear Friend,
I hear this Town does so abound
With saucy Censurers, that Faults are found
With what of late we (in poetick Rage)
Bestowing threw away on the dull Age.
But (howsoe’er Envy their Spleens may raise,
To rob my Brows of the deserved Bays)
Their Thanks at least I merit; since thro’ me
They are Partakers of your Poetry:
And this is all I’ll say in my Defence,
T’obtain one Line of your well-worded Sence,
I’ll be content t’have writ the British Prince.
⎫
⎬
⎭
And if exposing what I take for Wit,
To my dear self a Pleasure I beget,
No Matter tho’ the cens’ring Criticks fret.
⎫
⎬