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Our language, like our merchandize, demandsPerpetual tribute, from a thousand lands.When harshest style with meanest thoughts is join'd,Some plaintive plea subdues the reader's mind.The Bard, perchance, is young, o'erwhelm'd with fears;Forgive his faults, and spare his tender years.Or want, not will, inspires his tuneful rage[1];'Tis alms to buy—you need not read the page.
- ↑ Poverty, so far from being formerly a recommendation to the courtesy of the reader, was regarded, with some cruelty, as a disqualification for writing poetry at all.Quis locus ingenio: nisi cum se carmine soloVexant, et dominis Cirrhæ Nisæque ferunturPectora nostra, duas non admittentia curas?Magnæ mentis opus, nec de lodice parandâ
