To Fable I descend with soft delight,
Pleas’d to translate, or easily endite:
Whilst aery fictions hastily repair
To fill my page, and rid my thoughts of care,
As they to birds and beasts new gifts impart,
And teach as poets shou’d, whilst they divert.
But here, the critick bids me check this vein.
Fable, he crys, tho’ grown th’ affected strain,
But dies, as it was born, without regard or pain.
Whilst of his aim the lazy trifler fails,