Were silently consign’d to rest;
Yet did in sleep their pow’r retain,
As shews the visions of my brain.
My works I thought appear’d in print,
And were to diff’rent corners sent,
Whare patrons kind, but scant o’ skill,
Had sign’d my superscription bill.
Voratious critics by the way,
Like eagles watching for their prey,
Soon caught the verse wi’ aspect sour,