On barren ground who drag th'unwilling Plough,
And feel the Sweat of Brain as well as Brow.
A Crew so vile, which, soon as read, displease,
May Slumber in forgetfulness and ease,
Till fresher Dulness wakes their sleeping Memories.

Some stuff'd in Garrets dream for wicked Rhyme
Where nothing but their Lodging is sublime.
Observe their twenty faces, how they strain
To void forth Nonsense from their costive Brain.
Who (when they've murder'd so much costly time,
Beat the vext Anvil with continual chime,
And labour'd hard to hammer statutable Rhyme)
Create a _BRITISH PRINCE_; as hard a task,
As would a _Cowley_ or a _Milton_ ask,
To build a Poem of the vastest price,
A _DAVIDEIS_, or _LOST PARADISE_.
So tho' a Beauty of _Imperial Mien_
May labour with a Heroe, or a Queen,
The Dowdie's Offspring, of the freckled strain,
Shall cause like Travail, and as great a Pain.

Such to the Rabble may appear inspir'd,
By Coxcombs envy'd, and by Fools admir'd.
I pity Madmen who attempt to fly,
And raise their _Airy Babel_ to the Sky.
Who, arm'd with Gabble, to create a Name,
Design a Beauty, and a Monster frame,
Not so the Seat of _Phoebus_ role, which lay
In Ruins buried, and a long Decay.