She was married, I remember, to a person in the City,—
I consider'd him remarkably obtrusive at the time;
So I quitted my enslaver with a lofty look of pity,
For I felt my situation "but a step from the sublime."
Being confident that Cupid was a little gay deceiver,
I forgot my disappointment in a struggle after Fame;
I had caught the rage of writing as a child may catch a fever,
So I took to making verses as a way to make a name.
When I publish'd a collection of my efforts as a writer—
With a minimum of reason and a maximum of rhyme—