My small Sense, which so much you praise, my Friend!
You mine, the more you praise it, discommend,
So most expose, what most you wou'd defend;
For you, my little Sense, and Fancy praise,
With so much more, your Praise grows my Disgrace;
As he, who but the more to show his Wit,
A pleasant Tract, in Praise of Folly, writ,
Exposing it more, as more Praising it;
To make the Fools, he gave it to, more vain,
That he himself, the Praise he gave, might gain;
The Barrenness, thus of your Subject shows,
Your Wit's Store, does the Want of mine expose,
Till the more Praise it gains, the more I lose;
You thus affront me, with your Courtesie,
Which is so much, it turns to Raillery;
You, by your Wit, in Praise of mine, contrive,
To make your Proof but more a Negative;
Till your Wit, by which, you wou'd raise my Fame,
Does of my Honour, but become my Shame;
Does my small Sense, still but the more debase,
And makes your Commendation, my Disgrace;
Wou'd you know, why then I ne'r answer'd yet
Your Letter, 'twas but to show more my Wit,
Who shou'd show less, to think to answer it;
Then your own Witty Letter, best may be
Its Answer, why you have had none of me;
That, since you write so well still, as you do,
It is impossible to Answer you;
That th' Answer, you require to so much Wit,
You but forbid, by your demanding it;
Since, a requir'd Impossibility,
Does its own self implicitly deny;
Yet, since you Conquer, you shall Triumph too,
I'll Answer you, since I can't Answer you,
Yet make an end of Writing to you now;
Since, the best Answer sure, to so much Wit,
Is Silence, owning, there's no Answ'ring it;
I yet accept your Praise, since more you own,
Who, give me so much Praise, you leave me none;
Who, with so much more Wit, praise mine so much,
That I my self, the Praise you give me, grutch;
Who, praising my small Sense, so much more show,
That by your Praise, I more disparag'd grow;
Yet I, the better to it, can submit,
Since you, more than I, honour'd are by it;
Who, praising my small Sense, with so much more,
Show mine less, as yours more, than e'er before;
Since (ev'n against my self,) I must confess,
As more your Wit commends mine, mine seems less.