}
};
I grieve to think that Waller's blam'd,
Waller, so long, so justly, fam'd.
Then own your Verses writ in Haste,
Or I shall say, you've lost your Taste.
Perhaps your loyal Heart disdains
A Poet, who could take such Pains,
To tune his sweet, immortal Lays
To an usurping Tyrant's Praise:
And, where you hate the Man, I see,
You never like his Poetry.
The Truth of this your Verse discovers;
So you abus'd the Conscious Lovers.
Tho' in your Principles you glory,
The Muses are nor Whig nor Tory:
So from your Sentence they appeal,
Nor will be judg'd by Party Zeal.
Whene'er a Poet's to be try'd,
Let Pope hereafter be your Guide.
``Survey the Whole, nor seek slight Faults to find,
``Where Nature moves, and Rapture warms the Mind.
To A Gentleman, Who Had Abus'd Waller.
Mary Barber
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Poem topics: hate, heart, lost, nature, never, poetry, truth, rapture, sweet, guide, long, mind, taste, verse, sentence, conscious, poet, I love you, I miss you, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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