Worth tedious volumes of loose poetry.
A hundred scribbling authors without ground,
Believe they have this only phœnix found:
When yet the exactest scarce have two or three,
Among whole tomes from faults and censure free.
The rest, but little read, regarded less,
Are shovelled to the pastry from the press.
Closing the sense within the measured time,
'Tis hard to fit the reason to the rhyme.
EPIGRAM.