To
******
By
ANTHONY
WHISTLER
,
Esq
;
RESOLVE
me
,
Strephon
,
what
is
this
,
I
think
you
cannot
guess
amiss
.
'Tis
the
reverse
of
what
you
love
,
And
all
the
men
of
sense
approve
.
None
of
the
Nine
e'er
gave
it
birth
;
The
offspring
first
of
foolish
mirth
,
The
nurs'ry's
study
,
children's
play
,
Inferior
far
to
Namby's
lay
.
What
vacant
Folly
first
admir'd
,
And
then
with
emulation
fir'd
,
Gravely
to
imitate
,
aspir'd
.
'Tis
opposite
to
all
good
writing
,
In
each
defect
of
this
delighting
.
Obscurity
its
charms
displays
,
And
inconsistency
,
its
praise
.
No
gleam
of
sense
to
wake
the
soul
,
While
clouds
of
nonsense
round
it
roll
.
No
smooth
description
to
delight
;
No
fire
the
passions
to
excite
;
Not
joke
enough
to
shake
the
pit
:
A
jest
obscene
wou'd
here
be
wit
.
What
train
of
thought
,
tho'
e'er
so
mean
,
Of
black-shoe-boy
or
cynder-quean
,
But
far
out-shines
Sir
Fopling's
mind
While
bent
this
secret
charm
to
find
!
The
greatest
charm
as
yet
remains
,
Best
suited
to
the
searcher's
brains
,
That
when
he
seems
on
it
to
fall
,
He
finds
there
is
no
charm
at
all
.
Th'
appearance
,
first
,
of
Nothing's
fine
,
To
find
it
Nothing
is
divine
!
But
Batho
is
the
flow'r
,
to
sink
Below
what
mortal
man
can
think
—
Well
,
now
what
is't
?
—
what
is't
—
a
fiddle
!
—
Yes
,
do
be
angry
—
'tis
a
Riddle
.