VERSES to a Writer of RIDDLES

Ah! boast not those obscuring lays, Nor think it sure and certain That every one can draw a face, Who can produce a curtain.

POPE does the flourish'd truth no hurt, While graceful flowers disguise it; Thou daub'st it so with mud and dirt, That not a soul espies it.

His fancy decks, thy fancy shrowds; What likeness is between 'em? 'Twixt one who soars above the clouds, And one entangled in 'em?

But let my candour not upbraid Thy strains, which flow so purely; It is thy secret, 'tis thy trade, Thy craft—to write obscurely.

Obscurity in thee to blame I've not the least pretence; 'Tis that alone can guard thy fame, The style that suits thy sense.

When Nature forms an horrid mien Less fit for vulgar sight; The creature, fearful to be seen, Spontaneous shuns the light.

The bat uncouth thro' instinct fears The prying eyes of day; Yet when the sun no more appears, Securely wings away.

'Tis instinct bids the frightful owl To devious glooms repair; And points out Riddles to a fool, To wrap his genius there.