Here rests his head upon a folio terse,
An Author, once to wits and patrons known;
The Critics frown’d not on his humble verse,
Nor did the world his labours quite disown.
Large his editions, but his readers few;
Fate did a recompence as largely send,
He wisely bade to Booksellers adieu,
And (in their stead) each Chandler found a friend.
No longer now pil’d up in useless state,
His pages freely circulate thro’ town: