On Poet Prat. Epig.

Prickles is waspish, and puts forth his sting
For bread, drink, butter, cheese; for everything
That Prickles buys puts Prickles out of frame;
How well his nature's fitted to his name!

Nis he makes verses; but the lines he writes
Serve but for matter to make paper kites.

Let's strive to be the best; the gods, we know it,
Pillars and men, hate an indifferent poet.

Wantons we are, and though our words be such,
Our lives do differ from our lines by much.

I will be short, and having quickly hurl'd
This line about, live thou throughout the world;
Who art a man for all scenes; unto whom,
What's hard to others, nothing's troublesome.
Can'st write the comic, tragic strain, and fall
From these to pen the pleasing pastoral:
Who fli'st at all heights: prose and verse run'st through;
Find'st here a fault, and mend'st the trespass too:
For which I might extol thee, but speak less,
Because thyself art coming to the press:
And then should I in praising thee be slow,
Posterity will pay thee what I owe.

Pievish doth boast that he's the very first
Of English poets, and 'tis thought the worst.