Cursed be the verse, how well so e'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe.

What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!

It is sure the hardest science to forget!

And all who told it added something new, and all who heard it, made enlargements too.

Dear, damned, distracting town, farewell! Thy fools no more I'll tease: This year in peace, ye critics, dwell, Ye harlots, sleep at ease!

Why did I write? What sin to me unknown dipped me in ink, my parents , or my own?

The villain's censure is extorted praise.