M INERVA .

Author , your Productions seem
Like a sick Man's troubled Dream ;
Neither Middle, Tail, or Head;
Stole unfinish'd, cold, and dead.

Author .

Goddess of fine Arts! forgive!
I've no better Trade , to live;
And must suit my stupid Page
To the Genius of the Age :
This, I'm certain, will go down,
Get me Money and Renown .
Pallas , read this long Essay ,
Made in a short Winter's Day;
And this Book I sweat, to Write ,
A whole Summer 's sultry Night;
Nothing now but these succeed :
None my finish'd Labours read.

M INERVA .

From the Garret, Cellar, Plough
Authors I'll excite enough:
Crouds of Scriblers shall prevail,
Rise, like Mushrooms , thick as Hail!
Ægypt's resty King of Yore
Ne'er was plagu'd with Vermin more,
Than they shall the Town torment,
Till these tasteless Rogues relent,
Till I am ador'd, and see
Captiv'd Arts , and Nature free.