Me, whom no Muse of heavenly birth inspires, No judgment tempers when rash genius fires; Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme, Short gleams of sense, and satire out of time; Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads, By prattling streams, o’er flower-empurpled meads; Who often, but without success, have pray’d For apt Alliteration’s artful aid; Who would, but cannot, with a master’s skill, Coin fine new epithets, which mean no ill: Me, thus uncouth, thus every way unfit For pacing poesy, and ambling wit, Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place Amongst the lowest of her favour’d race.