To Mr. R. Smith of King's Colledge in Cambridge

I Hear, my Friend, some dare profane your name,
Derogate from your Merit and your Fame,
Presume your Body, for a capacious Mind
Too little, as if Dwarfs were Fools by kind.
Minerva sure was no such bouncing Dame,
The puny Product of Jove's little Brain.
Apollo too was but a Dapper Twin,
By Nature and by Birth the next akin:
Apollo all the Wit from Dian stole,
Shar'd half his Father's Rape, but all his Soul.
The other rough, unhewen, long Lubbers made,
For Nonsence, Service, Slavery, and Trade.
The Sacred Laurel is it self but low,
And with its humble and submissive bough,
Does court the mighty Brain, the little Brow.
What thô your Body be diminutive,
Heav'n to your Soul can no addition give.
Insects that have most Legs, do slowest crawl;
The Dove of all Birds, only wants a Gall.
What greater Bruits go by the name of men,
Than a Thersites, or a Saracen?
What thô dumb Animals we can despise,
The wisest man yet thought the Ant was wise.
A Nut-shell held the worth of Homer's Brain,
And a small Bottle could the Winds contain.
From narrow Streights vast rapid Billows flow,
And Zephyrus fruitful Gales do gently blow.
Full as much Prudence to the Bee is given,
As any wing'd Inhabitant of Heaven.
And the least Body justly may aspire
To one small spark of the Celestial Fire,
The Great can do no more, the Great can mount no higher.
The barren Tree can in the Desarts spread,
And threaten Heaven with its luxurious head:
Whilst others low, and laden with their Fruit,
With bended Branches touch their very root.
Let Fools and Coxcombs prate what they think fit,
And burst with Envy, they must still submit
To Pygmie Members, and Gigantick Wit.