MAY  hear my Strain,
I quote the Sages once again:
And shou'd you ask the Reason why,
"Old Authors fib, and so may I."
Proceed we then — Old Authors say,
once made Holiday,
And call'd the Brethren of the Quill,
To feast upon his tuneful Hill,
From ev'ry Nook and ev'ry Wind:
They came, for who wou'd stay behind?
Great was the Crowd, as may be guess'd:
Side grew to Side, and Back to Breast,
Till the Imperial Prince of Song,
Who fearing something might be wrong,
Sent forth a Troop with Caps and Spears,
Much like  Granadiers,
With surly Eyes and sour Faces,
To part the Crowd and give 'em Places.
Now I have quite forgot, I fear,
What Names the People gave 'em there
Amongst the Muses — But I trow
Men call 'em Criticks here below.
Now when at last these sage Reformers,
Had drove the Crew to Heaps and Corners,
They call'd them out by two and three,
And set 'em in a due Degree,
That each his proper Place shou'd know,
On Laurel Benches all a-row.