For who, to cold neglect a luckless prey
His unfrequented attic e’er resign’d,
E’er moved with better hopes across the way
And did not leave a spruce tin-plate behind?
Strong is the love of fame in nobler minds,
And he whose bold aspiring fate doth crush,
Receives some consolation when he finds
His name recorded by the painter’s brush.
For thee who, mindful of each briefless wight,
Dost in these motley rhymes their tale relate.