‘Why did I write? What sin to me unknown
Dipp’d me in ink, my parents’ or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father disobey’d:
The muse but serv’d to ease some friend, not wife;
To help me through this long disease, my life,
To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care,
And teach the being you preserv’d to bear.