Which still, he cries, their even measures keep,
Till both the writers, and their readers sleep.
But urge thy pen, if thou wou’d’st move our thoughts,
To shew us private, or the publick faults.
Display the times, High-Church or Low provoke;
We’ll praise the weapon, as we like the stroke,
And warmly sympathizing with the spite
Apply to thousands what of one you write.
Then, must that single stream the town supply,
The harmless Fable-writer do’s reply,