I waste no paper at the Hundred’s charge:
I rob no neighb’ring geese of quills, nor slink,
For a collection, to the church for ink:
Beside, my Muse is the most gentle thing
That ever yet made an attempt to sing:
I call no lady punk, nor gallants fops,
Nor set the married world an edge for ropes;
Yet I’m so nat’rally inclin’d to rhyming,
That undesign’d, my thoughts burst out a-chiming;
My active genius will by no means sleep,