Oh! rather give me commentators plain, Who with no deep researches vex the brain; Who from the dark and doubtful love to run, And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun.

Dear authors! suit your topics to your strength, And ponder well your subject, and its length; Nor lift your lad, before you're quite aware What weight your shoulders will, or will not, bear.

And hold up to the sun my little taper.

But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.

No author ever drew a character, consistent to human nature, but what he was forced to ascribe to it many inconsistencies.