Rheams heap’d on Rheams, incessant, mayst thou blot,
A lively, trifling, pert, one knows not what!
Form thy light Measures, nimbler than the Wind,
Whilst heavy lingring Sense is left behind;
With all thy Might pursue, and all thy Will,
That unabating Thirst, to scribble still,
Giv’n at thy Birth! the Poetaster’s Gust,
False and unsated as the Eunuch’s Lust!
Illustrious Fops, mean time, o’er-rate thy Lays,
And blooming Critics, as they spell thee, praise: