On the Gift of a Boat, by W—M C—R, to him

Mr. C—R, sure you are much in the Wrong, To part with a Vessel to purchase a Song: For how can a Poet, who never gets Chink, And makes all his Business to write or to think, Pay Money for Goods; 'tis too weighty indeed, Sir, For tho' of your Vessel he stands much in Need, Sir: Except you take Verses, and Pennyworths of Praise, He'll remain your poor Debtor to the End of his Days.

But the Way of the Country, is, Goods and Discount; And, Sir, if you'll reckon to what 'twill amount: In sweet Panegyricks, soft Strains, or rough Satyr, Such Goods as lie by me; Why then, Sir, have at her. Or if you insist on't, e're Sol flies his round, I'll hunt for a Mine, Sir, and pay when 'tis found.

Now, if you despise the Proposal that's fair, And refuse to commit the poor Boat to my Care; May she rest in the Bed, Sir, that Fate seems to give her, And fly the Mishaps of a boysterous River; Since she's swamp'd, and escap'd, to be wreek'd by a Rock, Make a Palace for Bull-Frogs, and rot in the Dock.