Address to the Reader.
Ubique patriam, reminisce.
Believe me, I think, some Apology's due,
Of course, Candid Reader, I'll make one to you,
Tho' Critics may cavil, for ever and ever,
I dread not their frown, nor solicit their favor.
Then, as for my rhyming—in sooth, you must know it,
I never pretended to be a great poet,
I write not for bread, and care little for pelf,
But scribble, to please my good Friends and myself.
Too partial, perhaps, to my Writings, of late,
They urg'd me to publish—The Orphan Boy's Fate;[1]
I did as they wish'd, and the constant demand
For the poor little Boy, whom all took by the hand,
So flatter'd my hopes, that, to mend his condition,[2]
I publish'd a Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, Edition.
But, believe me, I am not so fond of the treasure
I gain by the work, as the ultimate pleasure
It gives me to find, both the high and the low
With sympathy melt, with compaſsion o'erflow;
And children, with sweet pearly drops in each eye,
Lament, whilst they read, his hard fate with a sigh.
