But censure's self will please, my lord, from you;
Faults are our pride and gain, when you descend
To point them out, and teach us how to mend.
What though the great man set his coffers wide,
That cannot gratify the poet's pride;
Whose inspiration, if 'tis truly good,
Is best rewarded, when best understood.
The muses write for glory, not for gold,
'Tis far beneath their nature to be sold:
The greatest gain is scorn'd, but as it serves