By NATURE form'd (when for her Honour' sake
She something more than common strove to make,
When, overlooking each minute defect,
And all too eager to be quite correct,
In her full heat and vigour, she imprest
Her stamp most strongly on the favour'd breast)
The  (nor think too lightly that I mean
Those little, piddling Witlings, who o'erween
Of their small parts, the MURPHYS of the stage,
The MASONS and the WHITEHEADS of the age,
Who all in raptures their own works rehearse,
And drawl out measur'd prose, which They call verse)
The real  whom native Genius fires,
Whom ev'ry Maid of Castaly inspires,
Let him consider wherefore he was meant,
Let him but answer Nature's great intent,
And fairly weigh himself with other men,
Would ne'er debase the glories of his pen,
Would in full state, like a true Monarch, live,
Nor bate one inch of his