Such, sons of Britain! are the guides ye trust; So wise their counsel, their reports so just:-- Yet, though we cannot call their morals pure, Their judgment nice, or their decisions sure; Merit they have, to mightier works unknown, A style, a manner, and a fate their own. We, who for longer fame with labour strive, Are pain'd to keep our sickly works alive; 210 Studious we toil, with patient care refine, Nor let our love protect one languid line. Severe ourselves, at last our works appear, When, ah! we find our readers more severe; For after all our care and pains, how few Acquire applause, or keep it if they do!-- Not so these sheets, ordain'd to happier fate, Praised through their day, and but that day their date; Their careless authors only strive to join As many words as make an even line[20]; 220 As many lines as fill a row complete; As many rows as furnish up a sheet: From side to side, with ready types they run, The measure's ended, and the work is done; Oh, born with ease, how envied and how blest! Your fate to-day and your to-morrow's rest. To you all readers turn, and they can look Pleased on a paper, who abhor a book; Those, who ne'er deign'd their Bible to peruse, Would think it hard to be denied their news; 230 Sinners and saints, the wisest with the weak, Here mingle tastes, and one amusement seek; This, like the public inn, provides a treat, Where each promiscuous guest sits down to eat; And such this mental food, as we may call Something to all men, and to some men all.