Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
With wisdom fraught; not such as books, but such as practice taught.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.