Ye gods! he will not write, and Mævius will.
Doubly distrest, what author shall we find
Discreetly daring, and severely kind,
The courtly[6] Roman's shining path to tread,
And sharply smile prevailing folly dead?
Will no superior genius snatch the quill,
And save me, on the brink, from writing ill?
Tho' vain the strife, I'll strive my voice to raise,
What will not men attempt for sacred praise?
The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art,