A smooth clear Vein should have it Sourse
From Nature, and have Art but Nurse:
Which, though it Men at Athens feasts,
May fight at Ephesus with Beasts.

Wits, rudely hal'd to Momus Bar,
By braying Beasts condemned are.
Reason! How many Brutes there be
'Mong Men, 'cause not inform'd by Thee?

Vates Pòet--Prophet is; If good,
Alike both scorn'd, and understood.
Though Readers Censure's Writers Fate,
Spleen sha'nt contract, nor Praise dilate.

Or clap, or hisse. The Moon sails round,
Though bark'd at by each yelping Hound.
The brighter Shee, the more they bark;
But slumbring quetch not in the dark.

Deign Him, bright Souls, your piercing Glance,
(Arts Foes are Sons of Ignorance)
So, freed from Nights rude Overseers,
The Poet may be try'd by his Peers.