186 THE POEMS OF ANNE �Or tap' ring Yews here court the Breeze, That, like some Beaux whom Time does freeze, At once look Old and Green ? �I snarl, 'tis true, and sometimes scratch �A tender-footed Squire; Who does a rugged Tartar catch, When me he thinks to over-match, �And jeers for my Attire. �As to Yourself, who 'gainst me fret, �E'en give this Project o'er: For know, where'er my Root is set, These rambling Twigs will Passage get, �And vex you more and more. �No Wants, no Threatnings, nor the Jail �Will curb an angry Wit: Then think not to chastise, or rail; Appease the Man, if you'd prevail, �Who some sharp Satire writ. �THE HOUSE OF SOCRATES �For Socrates a House was built, �Of but inf eriour Size ; Not highly Arch'd, nor Carv'd, nor Gilt ; �The Man, 'tis said, was Wise. �But Mob despis'd the little Cell, That struck them with no Fear; �Whilst Others thought, there should not dwell So great a Person there. �How shou'd a due Recourse be made �To One, so much Admir'd? Where shou'd the spacious Cloth be laid, �Or where the Guests retir'd? ��� �
