She knows that Hymen can deceive;
But fondly hopes in verse to shine,
Assisted by the tuneful Nine;
To call their treasures all her own,
E’en in despite of fortune’s frown.
But weak, alas! is her pretence;
Her song proves destitute of sense.
Each cavilling critic does her vex,
And ev’ry censure sore perplex.
O may you never feel the pain,