On you dear Jim, the ready muse,

Which ever of the nine you choose

Attends, the rising thought to nurse,

And dress in all the pomp of verse:

Expressions apt, and numbers sweet,

And sees it on poetic feet:

But I who understand not lattin,

Am hard put to’t to bring things pat in,

When either rhyme, or matter fails,

I scratch my head, and bite my nails;

Out of my Cap pull ev’ry pin,

Then stick 'em frightful in again.

Not quite so much for want of thought,

As how to dress it as I ought.

With gratest care the novice strives,

T’avoid th’intruding explatives:*

[*Which like my evil genius stand

For ever ready at my hand.]

But when that I, do find that they,

Slide in thro’ mere neglect — away

The thin and flimsy sentence goes,

As e’en to meagre for plain prose

Then how to fill the awkward line

And put in something that may shine

I turn oer Pope, Gay, Swift, or Pitt,

And when I find a word will fit,

Seize on the plunder, write it down,

And proudly claim it as my own.

Such are the pains I take to please ye',

So hard I find it to write easy.

Perhaps you’l[sic] say, what means this rattle?

Why as most ladies mean, to prattle.

I ne’er intend to send you news.

Of rich Pompous, and braided Shoes.

Or charming Ruffles pil’d up three rows,

Or long as Homers list of Heroes:

A Cap deliciously small,

That looks just like no cap at all;

The names of Beaus and Belles recount,

That grac’d th’ Assembly at the Mount,

Who cheats at Cards, or whose the winner,

Or what we’d yesterday for dinner:

A doll so pretty I cou’d kiss it,

When I was last to pay a visit;

Of somebody that ne’er comes near us,

And twenty other things as serious.

These shall not trouble you — what then

You’l ask, provokes my des’prate pen?

Why so solicitous to know

What Ladies mean in what they do?

I mean, you know it is our way,

To prate an hour, and nothing say,

I mean to try, how I in metre

Can answer your obliging letter

And add to thousands; one more folly,

For you to laugh at, in

Your Polly. —