My thanks gentle Goddess most justly are due
For some excellent verses, which I guess are from you
By a sylph called a postman (at least I presume,
That none but a sylph from a genii would come.)
H ---- a’s fair writing was welcomed with joy,
For I long’d much to hear of the travelling boy;
No doubt he has got much to sing and to say,
And by this time has tasted the famed milky way;1
Can tell us the color, the shape, and the size,
Of the wig that was sent long ago to the skies.
Tho’ I’m sorry to hear, of the fall that he’s had,
His head you say’s hurt — I hope not very bad.
But if youths like him, such coursers will mount,
After drinking so deeply at Helicon’s fount,
They must take all they meet with, and thank their kind fate,
That their necks have been saved by a thickness of pate.
I also am mounted, but ’tis to my room,
Up three pair of stairs, not like him to the moon,
Where secure from all comets and fiery meteors,
This month past I’ve shrouded my beautiful features.
For the lines you entreat, I fear you must jest,
Or never from me would Verses request.
Believe me that I’m content with plain Water,
And never Pierian springs shall seek after.
Tho’ Pindu’s path is strewed with gay flowers,
And poets may boast of their rich myrtle bowers
Yet I know very well, ’tis only to those
Who well can select, from the thorn, the fair rose
Sufficit for me who pretend to no wit
To hear with delight what others have writ.
With this dearest Goddess, my pen I will rest,
Hoping soon to revisit the fam’d Attic Chest.
A Water drinker
but
No Tippler at Helicon
2y Whey? ↩