"'Three Things an Author's modest Wishes bound;
My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten Pound.'"
"Oh, come! that's Pope!"
"Well, and it's my Case too—pretty near. A callow Poetling writes a Piece, dedicates it to me, and expects me to patronize and print it."
"You? Why, I never saw your Name head a Dedication!"
"Well, Sir, you may shortly—if I find no Way of adroitly declining the Honour, as I have done similar Favours before."
"Why decline?"
"Oh, the Thing's burthensome."
"The ten Pounds may be; but most People consider themselves honoured, and are willing to pay for an expensive Luxury."
"Well, it's no Luxury to me."