A most irregular ODE, On a most irregular WRITER

Sir ISAAC complains That he loses his Pains, In Writing, And Fighting, And Squabbling, And Babbling, As fondly he deems, Or as wildly he dreams, To his schismatic Schemes To draw the rude Rabble in: Quoth He. on a Time, Tho' he spake not in Rhyme; (For that was the Season, It seems, to speak Reason;) Many are the Folks, Who love to crack their Jokes, And suppose me John O'Nokes Whilst more, Rich and Poor, With sarcastical Smiles, Say, they smell Tom O'Styles. Some think him a Tindall, some think him a Chubb, Some think him a Ranter that spouts from his Tub: Some think him a Newton, some think him a Locke, Some think him a Stone, and some think him Stock, —But a Stock he at least may thank Nature for giving. And if he's a Stone, I pronounce it is Living. But think him a Man of the Pulpit or Bar, A Man of—whatever you please,—but of War; (For, trust me, the Knight Has no Stomach to fight; Yet, tho' he's no Fighter, He's sure a prime Writer;) There are who aver that they know his Condition, And vow that He's either a Fool or Physician: Quoth Dick, by my Troth, (Tho' he meant not an Oath,) I believe he is both; Because into Sense He so seldom doth vary, And talks so much like an Apothecary. But, quoth his Friend Will—i—am, Of this Notion still I am, And always have been, (As may plainly be seen By my Watchings of old And Reflections so bold, And by Whigging of late In Defence of the State; For as to the Crown, I would have it pull'd down; And the Mitre, that Whore's-Cap, and still greater Evil, If I had my Will, should be sent to the—I-) I say that which Fact is, And still is my Practice; When a Man writes with Reason, I make it a Rule To deem the said Writer of Reason a Fool; And all Men of Reason will judge, that, from thence, I think him a Fool who presume to write Sense: From which one may guess, What I dare not express That the Right Worthy Wight, Tho' so knowing an Elf, Does not know Himself, Better than he knows his Friend the Knight. But all, Great and Small, High and Low, Friend and Foe, Do declare, Vow and Swear, (Excepting these Worthies, the Wight and the Knight, And the Wight's never wrong, and the Knight's ever right) That whate'er be his Trade, or whate'er be his Name, He's not likely soon to be kick'd into Fame; Because, notwithstanding He's so good a Hand in The Art of purloining, and picking, and gleaning, No Mortal on Earth can peep into his Meaning: But trust me, Sr Knight, You may write Day and Night; Yes, good Master Isaac, Till both Arm and Eyes ake; Scratch Noddle so thick, Bite Nails to the Quick; Praise Cromwell the glorious, And Kirk the Victorious; Twist Ropes To hang Popes; And damn the old Harlot In purple and scarlet; Tho' there's One next of Kin, Who, when stript to the Skin, Exhibits such Purity, Beauty and Charms, Her Form is so pleasing You cannot help squeezing, And tugging and hugging her close in your Arms: Yet alas, honest Man, Do the best that you can, Not one in the Nation, At least before the general Conflagration, (And then what you write May perhaps come to Light,) Your Works will develope, or even once heed them, For none, my good Friend, takes the Trouble to read them.