}
That, conscious of their faults, they shun the eye, }
And, as profane, from sacred places fly, }
Rather than see the offended God, and die. }
We bring no imperfections, but our own;
Such faults as made are by the makers shown;
And you have been so kind, that we may boast,
The greatest judges still can pardon most.
Poets must stoop, when they would please our pit,
Debased even to the level of their wit;