But this, in after ages will be done:
Our poet writes an hundred years too soon.
This age comes on too slow, or he too fast:
And early springs are subject to a blast!
Who would excel, when few can make a test
Betwixt indifferent writing and the best?
For favours, cheap and common, who would strive,
Which, like abandoned prostitutes, you give?
Yet, scattered here and there, I some behold,
Who can discern the tinsel from the gold: