BOLD, by th' indulgence of these courteous times, I seize the lyre, and chant my maiden rhymes. Though Art disown me, and the fertile veinOf mother-wit forsake my feeble strain,Though Critics threaten, friends approve me not, My verse old fashion'd and without a plot;In spite of Art, in frowning Nature's spite,In spite of all, I still resolve to write.I snatch th' auspicious moment, while I may, Secure of glory, pour the welcome lay.Thousands will hear, and grant th' approving smile, The haughty few may vent their spleen the while,[1]
- ↑ If I were desired to give the most instruction in the
