Xii

Then, Sir, accept this worthless verse, The tribute of an humble Muse, 'Tis all the portion of my niggard stars; Nature the hidden spark did at my birth infuse, And kindled first with indolence and ease; And since too oft debauch'd by praise, 'Tis now grown an incurable disease: In vain to quench this foolish fire I try In wisdom and philosophy: In vain all wholesome herbs I sow, Where nought but weeds will grow Whate'er I plant (like corn on barren earth) By an equivocal birth, Seeds, and runs up to poetry.