Classic Poem

A Dor'd Sulpitia! use no more Command,
Your Friendship is too pow'rful to withstand:
I therefore beg, you would this Suit forbear,
And hear impartially an Orphan's Pray'r.

The World's severe, true Criticks are but few;
And less will judge so candidly as you:
My Muse is dull, nor ever could endite
Lines brisk enough to give the Town Delight,
Flatt'ry she hates, all pert Obsceneness more:
Nor can She Patron's for their Gold adore.
Of this, or that false Fop, she can't complain,
Nor rail at Virtue in a modish Strain.
Such vulgar Theams, she still has been above;
Nor ever condescended once to Love.

Why then should I, on such a Task engage?
As well might Collier hope to purge the Stage,
As my poor Verses, to reform this Age.
And when we to the Press expose our Lays,
We reap the Criticks Censure, not their Praise.
By ev'ry wou'd-be-Writer, are we maul'd,
And once in Print, can never be recall'd.

Ah Madam! from these Terrours set us free,
Pity an humble Muse, or pity me;
And let us still enjoy, our lov'd Obscurity.