Fairly began—but finish'd not;
And fruitless, late remorse doth trace—
Like Hebrew lore a backward pace—
Her irrecoverable race.
Disjointed numbers; sense unknit
Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit;
Compose the mingled mass of it.
My scalded eyes no longer brook
Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look—
Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.