Of those few fools$$$ who with ill stars are curst$$$<br>Sure scribbling fools$$$ called poets$$$ fare the worst:<br>For they're a sort of fools which fortune makes$$$<br>And$$$ after she has made them fools$$$ forsakes.<br>With Nature's oafs 'tis quite a different case$$$<br>For Fortune favours all her idiot race.<br>In her own nest the cuckoo eggs we find$$$<br>Over which she broods to hatch the changeling kind:<br>No portion for her own she has to spare$$$<br>So much she dotes on her adopted care.<br>Poets are bubbles$$$ by the town drawn in$$$<br>Suffered at first some trifling stakes to win:<br>But what unequal hazards do they run!<br>Each time they write they venture all they've won:<br>The Squire that's buttered still$$$ is sure to be undone.<br>This author$$$ heretofore$$$ has found your favour$$$<br>But pleads no merit from his past behaviour.<br>To build on that might prove a vain presumption$$$<br>Should grant to poets made admit resumption$$$<br>And in Parnassus he must lose his seat$$$<br>If that be found a forfeited estate.
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