Quaint Humour's child, whose "colonelling'' knight Grave Satire archly kens with new delight, Ingenious BUTLER! through thy various round Of promissory jilts, what friend was found? Tho' oft he conn'd thy volume laughter-fraught, Tickled by each inimitable thought, (Good easy man, with heedless glee he read,) Could e'en thy sovereign's purse afford thee bread? And BUCKINGHAM'S loose conduct well may shew That wit, to wit is oft its greatest foe. O! in our later era could I see One son of smiling Ridicule, like thee, Still, (keen correction leering in her eyes,) Profuse of mirth, might sportive Censure rise, Drop soft elixir where she wounds the heart, And tickle with the plume that guides her dart!
