Ambrose Philips

An Irish Clergyman, "A Letter to Mr. Ambrose Philips, on his Landing in Ireland, and being abused for his Poems, on Lord Carteret's Family" Gulliveriana: or, a Fourth Volume of Miscellanies (1728) 101-03.

From Noise retir'd, and busy Life;
Estrang'd from Care, and freed from Strife,
Forgetful of the, once-lov'd, Town;
From Court to Change, my Name, unknown;
Careless, which Miss or Madam boasts
Herself, amongst the First-rate Toasts;
Careless, who Chief, thro' powerful Tongue,
At Bar, directs The Right and Wrong;
Or who, from Pulpit, painting Evil,
In blackest Colours shades the Devil;
Who smoaks at Jo's, the sagest Cit;
Whom Button dubbs the Tip-top Wit;
To thee, my lov'd, and much-fam'd Friend,
Obscure, these silent Lines I send.
I send, to greet the Man, ere while,
Own'd, First in Wit, thro' Britain's Isle;
To greet, That Phoebus gives to boast,
He's not so averse, to th' Irish Coast:
Since, when he sets and quits our Skies,
He bids his Favourite Philip's Rise.
But, hark! my Friend, whene'er you Land,
And print your Foot on Irish Sand;
Unless of Temper you have store,
You'll meet th' inhospitable Shore;
Where Swarms of Witlings buz, and prey
On every thing, brought new from Sea;
Where, Eastern Winds, with foreign News,
Some Home-spun Nonsense, still, produce.

Regret not, that Thy Virgin Muse,
To sing of Virgin Charms, did chuse;
Regret not, thy well-worded Praise;
The sweetest Subject, softest Lays:
Tho' puny Rhimers have thought fit
To shew, from thence, their want of Wit;
Tho' want of Manners they have shewn,
With Ribaldry, to teize the Town.

Thus, in A Country-Village, bawl,
Crowds of that Animal, we call
A Cabbin-Cur; whene'er they spy
A true Molossian-bred, pass by.
They Run; they Bark; they Rage; they Foam;
Scarce looking back, He trudges Home.