This not a Time favourable to poetical Composition; and why--Newspapers Enemies to Literature, and their general Influence--Their Numbers--The Sunday Monitor--Their general Character--Their Effect upon Individuals--upon Society--in the Country--The Village Freeholder--What Kind of Composition a Newspaper is; and the Amusement it affords--Of what Parts it is chiefly composed--Articles of Intelligence: Advertisements: The Stage: Quacks: Puffing--The Correspondents to a Newspaper; political and poetical--Advice to the latter--Conclusion. A time like this, a busy, bustling time, Suits ill with writers, very ill with rhyme: Unheard we sing, when party-rage runs strong, And mightier madness checks the flowing song: Or, should we force the peaceful Muse to wield Her feeble arms amid the furious field, Where party-pens a wordy war maintain, Poor is her anger, and her friendship vain; And oft the foes who feel her sting, combine, Till serious vengeance pays an idle line; 10 For party-poets are like wasps, who dart Death to themselves, and to their foes but smart. Hard then our fate: if general themes we choose, Neglect awaits the song, and chills the Muse; Or, should we sing the subject of the day, To-morrow's wonder puffs our praise away. More bless'd the bards of that poetic time, When all found readers who could find a rhyme; Green grew the bays on every teeming head, And Cibber was enthroned, and Settle read. 20 Sing, drooping Muse, the cause of thy decline; Why reign no more the once-triumphant Nine? Alas! new charms the wavering many gain, And rival sheets the reader's eye detain; A daily swarm, that banish every Muse, Come flying forth, and mortals call them NEWS: For these unread the noblest volumes lie; For these in sheets unsoil'd the Muses die; Unbought, unbless'd, the virgin copies wait In vain for fame, and sink, unseen, to fate. 30 Since, then, the town forsakes us for our foes, The smoothest numbers for the harshest prose; Let us, with generous scorn, the taste deride, And sing our rivals with a rival's pride. Ye gentle poets, who so oft complain That foul neglect is all your labours gain; That pity only checks your growing spite To erring man, and prompts you still to write; That your choice works on humble stalls are laid, Or vainly grace the windows of the trade; 40 Be ye my friends, if friendship e'er can warm Those rival bosoms whom the Muses charm: Think of the common cause wherein we go, Like gallant Greeks against the Trojan foe; Nor let one peevish chief his leader blame, Till, crown'd with conquest, we regain our fame; And let us join our forces to subdue This bold assuming but successful crew.