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The cautious Muse, who lingers o'er the strain,Consumes her wit, her toil, her time, in vain: Loses the printer's fee, the nation's praise, And grants but one, instead of twenty lays.
In truth, the Muse's is a thriving trade; Who, as the Bard, is half so richly paid?When funds are rising fast, and scarce his gold, His children grown, himself now waxing old; It is not wise, a moment to decline, The ample profits of the well paid line[1].
- ↑ The current price for lines, taken one with another, short and long, has been, I am told, half a crown each. The loss, therefore, must be very considerable, to a man of narrow fortune, if he suppress, for the space of a year only, a poem of half a dozen cantos, containing several thousand lines. It is glorious for the cause of literature, that
