Pray observe the soft poet with amorous quill

  Waste full half of a sheet on vague inspiration.

Do not fancy him drunk or imagine him ill

  If he wails by the hour of his heart’s desolation:

        ‘Tis but part of his trade

        To go mad o’er a maid

On whose beautiful face he his eyes ne’er hath laid —

  And the fond ardent passion that loudly resounds

  May tomorrow in Grub Street bring two or three pounds!