Erring by form, which blockheads sacred hold, Ne'er making new faults, and ne'er mending old, Rebukes my spirit, bids the daring Muse Subjects more equal to her weakness chuse; Bids her frequent the haunts of humble swains, Nor dare to traffic in ambitious strains; Bids her, indulging the poetic whim In quaint-wrought ode, or sonnet pertly trim, Along the church-way path complain with Gray, Or dance with Mason on the first of May?
