Of native genius flies—for want of time,
Lost to our darken’d world. ’Tis true they say
Men never wrote so much, both prose and rhyme;
But then their writings range from silly to sublime.
This truly is an age for making books;
And many now are candidates for fame,
Who give, like some ingenious pastry cooks,
A patch’d-up dish with new high sounding name;
And Fortune, who is aye a partial dame,
Oft wreathes the laurel round a brainless head,