Such as have pleased a friend, will strangers please;
But, suppliant, to the critic's throne I bow,
Here burn my incense, and here pay my vow;
That censure hush'd, may every blast give o'er,
And the lash'd coxcomb hiss contempt no more.
And ye, whom authors dread or dare in vain,
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Affecting modest hopes or poor disdain,
Receive a bard, who, neither mad nor mean,
Despises each extreme, and sails between;