flowers;
To watch them slumbering midst the blissful bowers;
To guard the shades that hide their sacred charms;
And shield their beauties from unhallow’d arms! 
Oh! may their suppliant steal a passing kiss? 
Alas! he pants not for superior bliss;
Thrice-bless’d, his virgin modesty shall be
To snatch an evanescent ecstacy! 
The fierce extremes of superhuman love,
For his frail sense too exquisite might prove;
He turns, all blushing, from th’Aoenian shade
To humbler raptures, with a mortal maid.

I know ’tis yours, when unscholastic wights
Unloose their fancies in presumptuous flights,
Awak’d to vengeance, on such flights to frown. 
Clip the wing’d horse, and roll his rider down. 
But, if empower’d to strike th’immortal lyre. 
The ardent vot’ry glows with genuine fire,
’Tis yours, while care recoils, and envy flies
Subdued by his resistless energies,
’Tis yours to bid Pierian fountains flow,
And toast his name in Wit’s seraglio;
To bind his brows with amaranthine bays,
And bless, with beef and beer, his mundane days! 
Alas! nor beef, nor beer, nor bays are mine,
If 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.