The Virginia Gazette

To Mr. A. B. who has distinguished himself lately as a Writer against the Author of a Poem called WINTER.

WHEN you your birchen Rod resigned,
inclin Against poor Bob of Chellow;
You, A. B. thought you had the Art
To pass, perhaps, for somewhat smart,
Nay, for a wond'rous Fellow.

Winter, ill-omen'd Piece! 'tis true,
To Criticks lean and gaunt, like you,
A high Repast display'd;
Like Buzzards seeking Carnage round,
You prey where Blunders can be found,
Of Sense and Wit afraid,

Though Rosinante, stumbling, goes,
How could you, A. B. once suppose
A better Brute you ride?
You, Sancho like, poor Dapple kick,
Or (when they serv'd the Squire a Trick)
A wooden Thing you stride.

Yet loaded, or with Prose or Song,
Unnoticed you might crawl along,
Whene'er the Whim possess'd;
Had not your dirty Brute, and you,
On Passengers your Doings threw,
And thus became a Pest.

Want you your Prototype to know,
From Virgil I'd Celano show,
Who dropp'd his Filth around;
Or I would paint the Coward Ass,
Who, without Insult, could not pass
The Lion on the Ground.

A. B. asks, with a Sneer, who is not enraptured when he reads the Lines ?

"Burke, Hewitt, Henley, Gratkin, in extreme,
Though they have Wit, rise far beneath the Theme."

Cum multis aliis.

Contactum; omnia cædant
Immundo: tum tetrum dira inter odorem.

The third Æneid.