I beg your Scholar you'll excuse,
Who dares no more debase the Muse.
My Mother says, If e'er she hears,
I write again on worthless Peers,
Whether they're living Lords, or dead,
She'll box the Muse from out my Head.
Sir, let me have no more, she cry'd,
Of Panegyricks, ill apply'd:
For Praise, ill--plac'd, adds no more Grace,
Than Jewels to Samantha's Face;
Whose Lustre serves to let us see
Both Folly, and Deformity.
