When Fiction Rises Pleasing To The Eye,

Who Shall Dispute What The Reviewers Say? Their Word's Sufficient; And To Ask A Reason, In Such A State As Theirs, Is Downright Treason.

Who All In Raptures Their Own Works Rehearse, And Drawl Out Measur'd Prose, Which They Call Verse.

Childhood, Who Like An April Morn Appears, Sunshine And Rain, Hopes Clouded O'er With Fears.

Tis Mighty Easy O'er A Glass Of Wine On Vain Refinements Vainly To Refine, To Laugh At Poverty In Plenty's Reign, To Boast Of Apathy When Out Of Pain, And In Each Sentence, Worthy Of The Schools, Varnish'd With Sophistry, To Deal Out Rules Most Fit For Practice, But For One Poor Fault That Into Practice They Can Ne'er Be Brought.

Knaves Starve Not In The Land Of Fools.