Address to the Critics

Those who can write, may justly merit praise, By criticising on my simple lays; But if they can't, their modest silence keep; And let me here, my youthful laurels reap. Juvenile the work,—blossoms swell the page; Expect the fruit, when more matur'd by age. A blooming tree, has life at least we know; When barren trunks, are doubtful, yes, or no. Then live my friends, your thriving blossoms send; Each small defect, as criticks, nicely mend. Miscellaneous writings shall be ours; As gardens blow, with diff'rent kinds of flow'rs: However grateful the perfume may be, To please, it wants a sweet variety. As youth in trifles often take delight; Perhaps the work will some, to read invite; Tho' emanations from a trifling pen, The novelty may please, full nine in ten. Jingling, thus we ring our many changes; The eye impatient, o'er the medley ranges. If fault finders, then, we will not mind 'em; One to mend, is worth a crowd to find 'em.