Of wit in rags, and learned Poverty—
If, like a son of those bright nymphs, the Nine
He e'er pr[o]fer a prayer at Phoebus' shrine,
Ask him to dart one genial beam on Earth
To hatch the Nothing of his Brain to birth,
That prayer or never comes, or comes too late;
The Nine still hold him illegitimate.—
In this Distress where next his application?
Where, but to thee thou darling Goddess, Fashion!
Fashion, the reigning Genius of today