With honest anguish, and an aching head,
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel, “Keep your piece nine years.”
“Nine years!” cries he, who high in Drury Lane,
Lull’d by soft zephyrs through the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends,
Oblig’d by hunger, and request of friends:
“The piece, you think, is incorrect? Why take it;
I’m all submission; what you’d have it, make it.”
Three things another’s modest wishes bound,