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TO VOL. III.
EPISTLE TO EUMENES.
KIND to my frailties still, Eumenes, hear;
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."