To you whose virtues, I must own
With shame, I have too lately known;
To you, by art and nature taught
To be the man I long have sought,
Had not ill Fate, perverse and blind,
Placed you in life too far behind: 
Or, what I should repine at more,
Placed me in life too far before: 
To you the Muse this verse bestows,
Which might as well have been in prose;
No thought, no fancy, no sublime,
But simple topics told in rhyme. 
  Three gifts for conversation fit
Are humour, raillery, and wit: 
The last, as boundless as the wind,
Is well conceived, though not defined;
For, sure by wit is only meant
Applying what we first invent. 
What humour is, not all the tribe
Of logic-mongers can describe;
Here only nature acts her part,
Unhelp’d by practice, books, or art: 
For wit and humour differ quite;
That gives surprise, and this delight,
Humour is odd, grotesque, and wild,
Only by affectation spoil’d;
’Tis never by invention got,
Men have it when they know it not. 
  Our conversation to refine,
True humour must with wit combine: 
From both we learn to rally well,
Wherein French writers most excel;
[2]Voiture, in various lights, displays
That irony which turns to praise: 
His genius first found out the rule
For an obliging ridicule: 
He flatters with peculiar air
The brave, the witty, and the fair: 
And fools would fancy he intends
A satire where he most commends. 
  But as a poor pretending beau,
Because he fain would make a show,
Nor can afford to buy gold lace,
Takes up with copper in the place: 
So the pert dunces of mankind,
Whene’er they would be thought refined,
Because the diff’rence lies abstruse
’Twixt raillery and gross abuse,
To show their parts will scold and rail,
Like porters o’er a pot of ale. 
  Such is that clan of boisterous bears,
Always together by the ears;
Shrewd fellows and arch wags, a tribe
That meet for nothing but to gibe;
Who first run one another down,
And then fall foul on all the town;
Skill’d in the horse-laugh and dry rub,
And call’d by excellence The Club. 
I mean your butler, Dawson, Car,
All special friends, and always jar. 
  The mettled and the vicious steed
Do not more differ in their breed,
Nay, Voiture is as like Tom Leigh,
As rudeness is to repartee. 
  If what you said I wish unspoke,
’Twill not suffice it was a joke: 
Reproach not, though in jest, a friend
For those defects he cannot mend;
His lineage, calling, shape, or sense,
If named with scorn, gives just offence. 
  What use in life to make men fret,
Part in worse humour than they met? 
Thus all society is lost,
Men laugh at one another’s cost: 
And half the company is teazed
That came together to be pleased: 
For all buffoons have most in view
To please themselves by vexing you.