Let those, who without genius write, and write, Versemen or prosemen, all in Nature's spite, The pen laid down, their course of folly run In peace; unread, unmention'd, be undone. Why should I tell, to cross the will of Fate, That Francis once endeavour'd to translate? Why, sweet oblivion winding round his head, Should I recall poor Murphy from the dead? Why many not Langhorne, simple as his lay, Effusion on effusion pour away, With Friendship, and with Fancy trifle here, Or sleep in Pastoral at Belvidere? Sleep let them all, with Dulness on her throne, Secure from any malice but their own.
