The wooden box-men, and the men of pies:
For heav'n's sake, let it ne'er be understood
That you, great Censors! coalesce with _wood_;
Nor let your actions contradict your looks,
That tell the world you ne'er colleague with _cooks_.

But, if the blithe muse will indulge a smile,
Why scowls thy brow, O Bookseller! the while?
Thy sunk eyes glisten through eclipsing fears,
Fill'd, like Cassandra's, with prophetic tears:
With such a visage, withering, woe-begone,
Shrinks the pale poet from the damning dun.
Come, let us teach each others tears to flow,
Like fasting bards, in fellowship of woe,
When the coy muse puts on coquettish airs,
Nor deigns one line to their voracious prayers;
Thy spirit, groaning like th'encumber'd block
Which bears my works, deplores them as _dead stock_,
Doom'd by these undiscriminating times
To endless sleep, with Della Cruscan rhymes;
Yes, Critics, whisper thee, litigious wretches!
Oblivion's hand shall _finish_ all my _Sketches_.
But see, _my_ soul such bug-bears has repell'd
With magnanimity unparallel'd!
Take up the volumes, every care dismiss,
And smile, gruff Gorgon! while I tell thee this:
Not one shall lie neglected on the shelf,
All shall be sold--I'll buy them in myself.