Suffenus, that wretch whom my Varus well knows,
So pretty, so prating, so over polite,
Has a genius for verse, that incessantly flows;
Has a muse which ten thousand fine things can indite:

His paper is royal, not common, or bad;
His wrappers, his bosses, are totally new;
His sheets, smooth'd by pumice, are all rul'd with lead,
And bound with a ribband of rose-colour'd hue:

Yet read this Suffenus; and soon will you find,
The strains of this coxcomb, so gaudy, so trim,
More worthy the muse of some goatherd or hind;
So much do they differ from what they would seem!

Whence comes it; that he, who an arrant buffoon,
Or what is more hackney'd, if ought can be more,
Who stupider far than the stupidest clown,
Should dare the sweet measure of numbers explore?

Should in his own fancy such learning possess,
As most to be happy whenever he writes;
And, vain of his taste to the utmost excess,
Enjoy in himself the most perfect delights?

Yet all to such errors are prone, I believe;
Each man in himself a Suffenus may find;
The failings of others we quickly perceive,
But carry our own imperfections behind.