Ye mighty  Judges, in a dearth
Of letter'd blockheads, conscious of the worth
Of my materials, which against your will
Oft You've confess'd, and shall confess it still,
Materials rich, tho' rude, enflam'd with Thought,
Tho' more by Fancy than by Judgment wrought,
Take, use them as your own, a work begin,
Which suits your Genius well, and weave them in,
Fram'd for the Critic loom, with Critic art,
Till thread on thread depending, part on part,
Colour with Colour mingling, Light with Shade,
To your dull taste a formal work is made,
And, having wrought them into one grand piece,
Swear it surpasses ROME, and rivals GREECE.