An
Apology
written
for
my
Son
to
his
Master
,
who
had
commanded
him
to
write
Verses
on
the
Death
of
the
late
Lord
—
.
I
beg
your
Scholar
you'll
excuse
,
Who
dares
no
more
debase
the
Muse
.
My
Mother
says
,
If
e'er
she
hears
,
I
write
again
on
worthless
Peers
,
Whether
they're
living
Lords
,
or
dead
,
She'll
box
the
Muse
from
out
my
Head
.
Sir
,
let
me
have
no
more
,
she
cry'd
,
Of
Panegyricks
,
ill
apply'd
:
For
Praise
,
ill-plac'd
,
adds
no
more
Grace
,
Than
Jewels
to
Samantha's
Face
;
Whose
Lustre
serves
to
let
us
see
Both
Folly
,
and
Deformity
.