Your fateful arms, the goosequill and the wig:
The wig, with wisdom's somb'rous seal impress'd,
Mysterious terrors, grim portents, invest;
And shame and honor on the goosequill perch,
Like doves and ravens on a country church.

As some raw 'Squire, by rustic nymphs admir'd,
Of vulgar charms, and easy conquests tir'd,
Resolves new scenes and nobler flights to dare,
Nor "waste his sweetness in the desert air",
To town repairs, some fam'd assembly seeks,
With red importance blust'ring in his cheeks;
But when, electric on th'astonish'd wight
Burst the full floods of music and of light,
While levell'd mirrors multiply the rows
Of radiant beauties, and accomplish'd beaus,
At once confounded into sober sense,
He feels his pristine insignificance;
And blinking, blund'ring, from the general _quiz_
Retreats, "to ponder on the thing he is."
By pride inflated, and by praise allur'd,
Small Authors thus strut forth, and thus get cur'd;
But, Critics, hear! an angel pleads for _me_,
That tongueless, ten-tongued cherub, _Modesty_.

Sirs! if you damn me, you'll resemble those
That flay'd the Travell'r, who had lost his clothes;
Are there not foes enough to _do_ my books?
Relentless trunk-makers, and pastry-cooks?
Acknowledge not those barbarous allies,