Await alike th’ inevitable hour:
The backs of Russia cannot always save.
Nor you, ye fam’d, impute to these the fault
If learning o’er those shelves no volumes raise,
Where oft the book-collector loves to halt
And Lackington[15] yet swells with his own praise.
Can hot-press’d page, or mezzotinto bust,
Back to an author call th’ expended sum?
Can honour’s voice engage the printer’s trust,