To Mr. Thomas Southern, on his Birth-Day
Resign’d to live, prepar’d to die,
With not one sin, but poetry,
This day Tom’s fair account has run
(Without a blot) to eighty—one.
Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays
A table, with a cloth of bays;
And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,
Presents her harp still to his fingers.
The feast, his tow’ring genius marks
In yonder wild goose and the larks!
The mushrooms shew his wit was sudden!
And for his judgement, lo a pudden!
Roast beef, tho’ old, proclaims him stout,
And grace, altho’ a bard, devout.
May Tom, whom heav’n send down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays,
He ev’ry birth—day more a winner,
Digest his thirty thousandth dinner;
Walk to his grave without reproach,
And scorn a rascal and a coach.
