Your taste is diseased, can your cure be to write?
You suppose you're a genius, that ought to engage
The attention of wits and the smiles of the age:
Would the wits of the age their opinion make known,
Why—every man thinks just the same of his own.
You imagine that Pope—but yourself you beguile—
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Would have wrote the same things, had he chose the same style.
Delude not yourself with so fruitless a hope—
Had he chose the same style, he had never been Pope.