by your looks, my doom I may divine,
Ye frown so dreadful, and ye swell so big
Your fateful arms, the goosequill and the wig:
The wig, with wisdom's somb'rous seal impress'd,
Mysterious terrors, grim portents, invest;
And shame and honor on the goosequill perch,
Like doves and ravens on a country church.

As some raw 'Squire, by rustic nymphs admir'd,
Of vulgar charms, and easy conquests tir'd,
Resolves new scenes and nobler flights to dare,
Nor "waste his sweetness in the desert air",
To town repairs, some fam'd assembly seeks,
With red importance blust'ring in his cheeks;
But when, electric on th'astonish'd wight
Burst the full floods of music and of light,
While levell'd mirrors multiply the rows
Of radiant beauties, and accomplish'd beaus,
At once confounded into sober sense,
He feels his pristine insignificance;
And blinking, blund'ring, from the general _quiz_
Retreats, "to ponder on the thing he is."
By pride inflated, and by praise allur'd,
Small Authors thus strut forth, and thus get cur'd;
But, Critics, hear! an angel pleads for _me_,
That tongueless, ten-tongued cherub, _Modesty_.

Sirs! if you damn me, you'll resemble those
That flay'd the Travell'r, who had lost his clothes;
Are there not foes enough to _do_ my books?
Relentless trunk-makers, and pastry-cooks?
Acknowledge not those barbarous allies,
The wooden box-men, and the men of pies:
For heav'n's sake, let it ne'er be understood
That you, great Censors! coalesce with _wood_;
Nor let your actions contradict your looks,
That tell the world you ne'er colleague with _cooks_.

But, if the blithe muse will indulge a smile,
Why scowls thy brow, O Bookseller! the while?
Thy sunk eyes glisten through eclipsing fears,
Fill'd, like Cassandra's, with prophetic tears:
With such a visage, withering, woe-begone,
Shrinks the pale poet from the damning dun.
Come, let us teach each others tears to flow,
Like fasting bards, in fellowship of woe,
When the coy muse puts on coquettish airs,
Nor deigns one line to their voracious prayers;
Thy spirit, groaning like th'encumber'd block
Which bears my works, deplores them as _dead stock_,
Doom'd by these undiscriminating times
To endless sleep, with Della Cruscan rhymes;
Yes, Critics, whisper thee, litigious wretches!
Oblivion's hand shall _finish_ all my _Sketches_.
But see, _my_ soul such bug-bears has repell'd
With magnanimity unparallel'd!
Take up the volumes, every care dismiss,
And smile, gruff Gorgon