To the Inheritor of all Worthiness

Sir William Skipwith


If, from servile hope or love,
      I may prove
But so happy to be thought for
Such a one, whose greatest ease
      Is to please,
Worthy sir, I've all I sought for:
For no itch of greater name,
      Which some claim
By their verses, do I show it
To the world; nor to protest
      'Tis the best;—
These are lean faults in a poet;—
Nor to make it serve to feed
      At my need,
Nor to gain acquaintance by it,
Nor to ravish kind attornies
      In their journies
Nor to read it after diet.
Far from me are all these aims,
      Fittest frames
To build weakness on and pity.
Only to yourself, and such
      Whose true touch
Makes all good, let me seem witty.
The admirer of your virtues,