To a Gentleman, who promised me the Works of Mr. Addison

No stripling, puny Preist desires more, To steal from Austins, or from Grotius' Store; When knotty Themes his muddy Brains has vext, And he is puzl'd to pursue his Text: No unfledg'd Lawyer essaying at the Bar, With empty Head-Piece, and a noisy Jar; Was e'er so sorely anxious to invoke, Some speedy Aid from Bracton, or from Coke: No plaugy Quack, that of Success despairs, Who's trembling for his Credit and his Ears: And when for both he's wofully afraid, He flies for Help to Galen, or to Mede: No Bard, alas! divested of his Bays, On whom a Swarm of hungry Criticks preys; When charg'd with Spleen, and for his latest Shift, He makes Address to Horace, or to Swift; Not one of all the Donny Rogues I nam'd, When in the Dumps, and of their Works asham'd; Did ever long with more intense Concern T' improve their Knowledge, and their Arts to learn; Than I to read those Lines of Addison, Where Britons beat, and fairy Frenchmen run. Who knows, when I 've paus'd a while his Theme, But I next Year may grow like him in Fame. If former Friends their triple League advance; By Jove I'll write, and they shall cudgel France. When like a Wren upon his Wings, I raise, With England's Fame I'll mix your worthy Praise.