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TO VOL. III.
EPISTLE TO EUMENES.
KIND to my frailties still, Eumenes, hear;
Of nauseous verses offer'd once a week,
'Twas ne'er my pride to shine by flashy fits
Content if some few friends indulge my name,
So slightly am I stung with Love of Fame,
I would not scrawl one hundred idle lines—
Yet once a moon, perhaps, I steal a night; And, if our Sire Apollo pleases, write.
You smile; but all the train the Muse that follow,
Christians and dunces, still we quote Apollo.
To Goths, that stare astonish'd at their verse;
I to sound judges from the mob appeal, And write to those who most my subject feel. Eumenes, these dry moral lines I trust
With you, whom nought that's moral can disgust. With you I venture, in plain home-spun sense, What I imagine of Benevolence.
Of all the monsters of the human kind, What strikes you most is the low selfish mind."