Classic Poem

With an indulgent Smile, my Lord, excuse
This sadly-true Prediction of the Muse;
And may this single Specimen of Woe
Speak for the Rest, and all its Author show;
Nor blushing let me mourn my Youthful Hours ,
As vainly spent in the Parnassian-Bowers .
By Nature prompted, and a Slave to Fate,
I strove to please the Witty, and the Great;
Presumptuous hence, nor without Hopes I come
To you, and from your Taste await my Doom;
From thence implore the Sanction of your Name ,
To be my Pasport thro' the Gates of Fame.
So, Miners , first, the Bullion-Ore refine,
Then beg their Monarch's Stamp , to make it Currant-Coin .