To a Gentleman, Who Shew’D a Fine Poem as His Own.
No more at Criticks, Ned, repine,
Who say those Numbers are not thine.
I own I was suspicious too,
And thought the Verse too good for You:
But since you say those Lines you writ,
The Proof is full, and I submit.
So, if Thaumantia should profess,
She owes Herself her glorious Dress;
And Cynthia, Empress of the Night,
Declare she shines by native Light;
(Tho’ envious Criticks vent their Gall,)
I’d equally believe you all.
