If its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other.

Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.

Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.

Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.

His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd and as God He taught.

So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.