To a Gentleman, who shew'd a fine Poem as his own.

To a Gentleman, who shew'd a fine Poem as his own.

No more at Criticks, Ned, repine, Who say those Numbers are not thine. I own I was suspicious too, And thought the Verse too good for You: But since you say those Lines you writ, The Proof is full, and I submit.

So, if Thaumantia should profess, She owes Herself her glorious Dress; And Cynthia, Empress of the Night, Declare she shines by native Light; (Tho' envious Criticks vent their Gall,) I'd equally believe you all.