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Alexander Pope - To Mr. Thomas Southern, on his Birth-Day
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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.
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