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; 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, Prais’d thro’ their Day, and but that Day their Date; Their careless Authors only strive to join As many Words, as make an even Line[14]; 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 envy’d and how blest! Your Fate to-day and your to-morrow’s Rest. To you all Readers turn, and they can look Pleas’d on a Paper, who abhor a Book; Those who ne’er deign’d their Bible to peruse, Would think it hard to be deny’d their News; 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.