The Entering Wedge
Written a Century ago by an
Illegitimate of the Pindar Family.1

Reader, I mean not any Quibble

Double Entendre or Scorn-moving Pun,

Not so devoted to the vulgar Fun

As grave & decent Converse to forego;

Or, like thin Critics, at a Word to nibble

And vehement proceed from Word to Blow.

I hate the light sophisticating Tribe

Who throw out Baits for th’ little Fry,

Or microscopic Spectacles prescribe

To search for Motes i’ th’ public Eye.

Yet not too fond of the didactic Style,

Which lends Stupidity its dozy Aid,

And comes in learned Follies oft array’d

With Lumber brought from Schools;

From Wisdom, ’tho austere to force a Smile

But urge to Exstacy the solemn Fools.

I shall not therefore thumb o’er Rowning2

Or gravely quote the sage Maclaurin3—

Authorities with Proofs for ever warring.

Nor shall I idly waste your Hours

With Descants on mechanic Pow’rs

In Definitions Comprehension drowning.

Yet, Reader, pause—& set your Muscles—

My subject is nor Screw nor Lever:

Let not Impatience raize your Fever,

For soon to broach it I myself will pledge;

’Tis known to Clowns of dense Corpuscles

—’Tis simply then—an ent’ring Wedge—

In long Harrangues I never glory

Or gravely sit with Dulness down,

Assisting with an Owl-like Frown,

To pass upon the World her leaden Lies—

But will relate a simple Story—

—“A Word’s sufficient for the wise”—

A Bungler once assay’d to split a Tree

And sweating strove to cleave it at the Crotch—

—Thought he had hit it to a Notch—

Yet fail’d & curs’d & curs’d & fail’d again—

An Adept passing chanc’d the Oaf to see

And shew’d the Clown what he had sought in vain.

My Friend, the knowing one full waggish cries,

I have been married for these twenty Years—

Stare not my Friend—no clownish Jeers—

The Thing I tell you is quite apposite—

I’ve driven at a Crotch with Wedge & Prize

But tho’ industrious—have not split it yet.

Another Thing you’l say’s a Tree,

’Tis true—but then reverse your Toil;

The Butt of this will split most free

—The Crotch of both your Wedge will foil.

The Clown, delighted, took the Hint

His Wedge so easy driving,

He left together not a Splint

And spoil’d his Tree with Riving—

Reader, there’s Moral in our Tale—

To Marplots never shew the Way—

Lest Mischief over Right prevail;

The more you teach, the more they’l stray.

In Politics your Plans you marr

If you’re forever splitting;

The Malcontents will rage & jarr

Like Colts you’ve spoil’d in Bitting.

Assist them not to raize their Storm

On Caution keep an Edge;

When solid Systems once you form—

Beware of th’ ent’ring Wedge.4