To Mr. Fielding,
Occasioned By
The Revival Of The Author's Farce
Sent To The Author By An Unknown Hand
While wit, like persecution reigns, and all
Must in the furious inquisition fall,
Untried, unheard: while guiltless crowds expire,
Martyrs to speel! in each poetic fire;
Nor characters, nor worth, nor sex, nor age,
Nor sacred majesty escapes her rage;
Against example who shall dare commend?
Avow good-nature or confess a friend?
Hard is the task, in such a soil, to raise
From her decay the long-lost art of praise;
Where the sharp thistle springs t' implant the corn,
Or graft the rose upon the spiny thorn.
Willing, yet weak, and fearful of the fight,
In vain I mourn the abuse I cannot right;
Yet this remains—with cheerful warmth to pay
To real worth this tributary lay.
Accept then, Fielding! from a heart sincere,
A gift commended by its being rare,
Unfeigned applause! by no mean motive swayed
Nor yet to thee, but to thy merit paid.
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