toil,
His morning study, and his midnight oil,
At length an author’s one great work appeared,
By patient hope, and length of days, endear’d: 
Expecting nations hail’d it from the press;
Poetic friends prefix’d each kind address;
Princes and kings received the pond’rous gift,
And ladies read the work they could not lift. 
Fashion, though Folly’s child, and guide of fools,
Rules e’en the wisest, and in learning rules;
From crowds and courts to “Wisdom’s seat she goes
And reigns triumphant o’er her mother’s foes. 
For lo! these fav’rites of the ancient mode
Lie all neglected like the Birthday Ode. 
   Ah! needless now this weight of massy chain; {2}
Safe in themselves, the once-loved works remain;
No readers now invade their still retreat,
None try to steal them from their parent-seat;
Like ancient beauties, they may now discard
Chains, bolts, and locks, and lie without a guard. 
   Our patient fathers trifling themes laid by,
And roll’d, o’er labour’d works, th’ attentive eye: 
Page after page the much-enduring men
Explored the deeps and shallows of the pen: 
Till, every former note and comment known,
They mark’d the spacious margin with their own;
Minute corrections proved their studious care;
The little index, pointing, told us where;
And many an emendation show’d the age
Look’d far beyond the rubric title-page. 
   Our nicer palates lighter labours seek,
Cloy’d with a folio-number once a week;
Bibles, with cuts and comments, thus go down: 
E’en light Voltaire is NUMBER’D through the town: 
Thus physic flies abroad, and thus the law,
From men of study, and from men of straw;
Abstracts, abridgments, please the fickle times,
Pamphlets and plays, and politics and rhymes: 
But though to write be now a task of ease,
The task is hard by manly arts to please,
When all our weakness is exposed to view,
And half our judges are our rivals too. 
   Amid these works, on which the eager eye
Delights to fix, or glides reluctant by,
When all combined, their decent pomp display,
Where shall we first our early offering pay? 
   To thee, divinity! to thee, the light
And guide of mortals, through their mental night;
By whom we learn our hopes and fears to guide;
To bear with pain, and to contend with pride;
When grieved, to pray; when injured, to forgive;
And with the world in charity to live. 
   Not truths like these inspired that numerous race,
Whose pious labours fill this ample space;
But questions nice, where doubt on doubt arose,
Awaked to war the long-contending foes. 
For dubious meanings, learned polemics strove,
And wars on faith prevented works of love;
The brands of discord far around were hurl’d,
And holy wrath inflamed a sinful world:-
Dull though impatient, peevish though devout,
With wit disgusting, and despised without;