BOLD, by th' indulgence of these courteous times,
I seize the lyre, and chant my maiden rhymes.
Though Art disown me, and the fertile vein
Of 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]
I seize the lyre, and chant my maiden rhymes.
Though Art disown me, and the fertile vein
Of 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
