And dwindles into Nothing in the end.
No; they'r above the Genius of this Age,
Each word of thine swells pregnant with a Page.
Then why do some Mens nicer ears complain,
Of the uneven Harshness of thy strain?
Preferring to the vigour of thy Muse
Some smooth weak Rhymer, that so gently flowes,
That Ladies may his easy strains admire,
And melt like Wax before the softning fire.
Let such to Women write, you write to Men;