Who pants for triumph seldom wins the race;
Venture not all, but wisely hoard thy worth,
And let thy labours one by one go forth;
Some happier scrap capricious wits may find
On a fair day, and be profusely kind;
Which, buried in the rubbish of a throng,
Had pleased as little as a new-year's song,
Or lover's verse, that cloy'd with nauseous sweet,
140
Or birth-day ode, that ran on ill-pair'd feet.