As heaping fuel on a kindling fire,
So deals a thoughtless poet with his praise;
For, when he would the cheerful warmth inspire,
He chokes the very thing he hopes to raise.
How shall I, then, the happy medium hit,
And give the just proportion to my song? 10
How speak of beauty, elegance, and wit,
Yet fear at once t’offend thee and to wrong?
Sure to offend, if far the Muse should soar,
And sure to wrong thee if her strength I spare: