So I to you from _Epworth_ and the _Isle_:
Harsh _Northern_ Fruits from our cold Heav'ns I send,
Yet, since the _best_ they yield, they'll please a _Friend_.
You ask me, What's the readiest way to _Fame_,
And how to gain a _Poet's_ sacred Name?
For _Saffold_ send, your Choice were full as just,
When burning _Fevers_ fry your Limbs to Dust!
Yet, lest you _angry_ grow at your _Defeat_, }
And me as ill as that fierce _Spark_ should treat } 10
Who did the Farrier into Doctor _beat_; }
You to my little _Quantum_, Sir, are free,
Which I from HORACE glean or NORMANDY;
These with some grains of _Common Sense_ unite,
Then freely _think_, and as I think I write.
First _poize_ your _Genius_, nor presume to write
If _Phoebus_ smile not, or some _Muse_ invite:
Nature refuses _Force_, you strive in vain,
She will not _drag_, but struggling breaks the Chain.
How bright a Spark of _Heav'nly Fire_ must warm! 20
What _Blessings_ meet a _Poet's Mind_ to form!
How oft must he for those _Life-Touches_ sit,
_Genius, Invention, Memory, Judgment, Wit_?
There's here no _Middle-State_, you must excel;
_Wit_ has no _Half-way-House_ 'twixt _Heav'n_ and _Hell_
_All cannot All things_, lest you mourn too late,
Remember _Phaeton_'s unhappy _Fate_!
Eager to guide the _Coursers_ of the _Day_, }
Beneath their _Brazen Hoofs_ he trampled lay, }
And his bright _Ruines_ mark'd their flaming Way. } 30
[Sidenote: _Genius_.]