And force them, though it was in spite Of Nature and their stars, to write.

And hold up to the sun my little taper.

Apt Alliteration's artful aid.

As so I penned It down, until at last it came to be, For length and breadth, the bigness which you see.

But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.

Dear authors! suit your topics to your strength, And ponder well your subject, and its length; Nor lift your lad, before you're quite aware What weight your shoulders will, or will not, bear.

Habits of close attention, thinking heads, Become more rare as dissipation spreads, Till authors hear at length one general cry Tickle and entertain us, or we die!

Indeed, unless a man can link his written thoughts with the everlasting wants of men, so that they shall draw more from them as wells, there is no more immortality to the thoughts and feelings of the soul than to the muscles and bones.

No call has ever poisoned by pen. [Fr., Aucun fiel n'a jamais empoisonne ma plumme.]