NO more, dear Smith, the hackney'd Tale renew;
I own their censure, I approve it too.
For how can Ideots destitute of thought,
Conceive, or estimate, but as they're taught?
Say, can the satirizing Pen of Shears,
Exalt his name, or mutilate his ears?
None, but a Lawrence, can adore his Lays,
Who in a quart of Claret drinks his praise.
T—l—r repeats, what Catcott told before,
But lying T—l—r is believ'd no more.
If in myself I think my notions just,
The Church and all her arguments are dust.