Or little say they have not said _before_.
_Poor Insects_ of a _Day_, we toil and strive
To creep from _Dust_ to _Dust_, and think we _live_;
These weak _imperfect Beings_ scarce enjoy
E'er _Death's_ rude Hand our _blooming Hopes_ destroy:
With _Lynx's_ Eyes each others _Faults_ we find,
But to our _own_ how few who are not _blind_? 210
How _long is Art_, how _short_, alas! our _Time_! }
How few who can above the _Vulgar_ climb, }
Whose _stronger Genius_ reach the _True Sublime_! }
With _tedious Rules_ which we our selves transgress,
We make the _Trouble more_ who strive to make it _less_.
But meanly why do you your _Fate_ deplore,
Yet still write on?--Why do a _Thousand_ more,
Who for their _own_ or some _Forefathers_ Crime
Are _doom'd_ to wear their _Days_ in _beating Rhime_?
But this a _Noble Patron_ will redress, 220
And make you _better write_, tho you _write less_:
Whate'er a _discontented Mind_ pretends,
_Distinguish'd Worth_ can rarely miss of _Friends_:
Do but _excel_, and he'll at last arise
Who from the _Dust_ may lift thee to the _Skies_;
For his _own Sake_ will his _Protection_ grant;
What _Horace_ e'er did yet _Mecænas_ want?
Or if the _World_ its _Favours_ should refuse,
With _barren Smiles_ alone _reward_ thy Muse;
Be thy _own Patron_, thou no more wilt need, 230
For all will _court_ thee if thy _Works succeed_;
At least the few _Good Judges_ will commend,
And _secret growing Praise_ thy Steps attend.