By those who cannot write, and those who can,
How shall a recreant bard in nature's spight
Save one poor piece, and live a second night?
What—shall he try the arts of low grimace,
Rant like old Bayes, and with a begging face
Implore the patient monarchs of the Pit
To let dull farce pass off for sterling Wit?
No faith—his brother critics most he fears,
And wisely waves the privilege of Peers—
Nor disapproves he less the threadbare plea