These weak imperfect Beings scarce enjoy
E’er Death’s rude Hand our blooming Hopes destroy:
With Lynx’s Eyes each others Faults we find,
But to our own how few who are not blind?
How long is Art, how short, alas! our Time! }
How few who can above the Vulgar climb, }
Whose stronger Genius reach the True Sublime! }
With tedious Rules which we our selves transgress,
We make the Trouble more who strive to make it less.
But meanly why do you your Fate deplore,
Yet still write on?—Why do a Thousand more,
AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND CONCERNING POETRY.
By SAMUEL WESLEY.