The world’s approval he is sure to gain.
But, would you think it? he has now essayed
To be a bard, and countless verses made;
Perhaps ten thousand, perhaps ten times more,
For none but he could ever count them o’er;
Not scribbled down on scraps, as one does when
In careless rhymes we only try our pen,
But in a gilt-edged book, all richly bound,
The writing ornate with a care profound,
Rich silken cords to mark each favorite part,