He spies me out. I whisper, gracious God!
What Sin of mine cou'd merit such a Rod?
That all the Shot of Dulness now must be
From this thy Blunderbuss discharg'd on me!
Well met (he cries) and happy sure for each,
For I am pleas'd to learn, and you to teach;
What  esteem you most? — "The , said I,
But the best  —"O Sir, the
You miss my aim; I mean the most acute
And perfect  past dispute.
But Sir, of Writers? —" for closer Style,
"And  for a Period of a Mile.
Why yes, 'tis granted, these indeed may pass;
Good common Linguists, and so  was:
Nay troth, th'  (tho' perhaps too rough)
Had once a pretty Gift of Tongues enough.
Yet these were all I dare
Affirm, 'twas  made them what they were.