A _Pair of Adamantine Lungs_, A _Throat of Brass_, _Fame's hundred Tongues_, Time out of Mind have been confest, By _fifty Poets_, at the least, Too little to count _Hybla's Bees_, The _Leaves that cloathe the Forest-Trees_; The _Sands that broider Neptune's Side_, Or _Waves_ that on his Bosom ride; The _Grains_ which rich _Sicilia_ yields, The _Blades_ with which _Spring_ robes the Fields; The _Stars_ which twinkling on the sight _Jove_'s _Threshold_ make so glorious bright: Or (if we may annex to these _Modern Impossibilities_) To reckon up the sum of _Knaves_ That crawl on _Earth_, or sleep in _Graves_, To count the _Prudes_ that crowd to _Pews_, While their _Thoughts_ ramble to the _Stews_, _Lords_, whose sole Merit is their _Place_, _Ladies_, whose Worth's a _painted Face_, Who find _my Lord_ has lost his _Force_ In _Love_, and sue for a _Divorce_; Or to abridge, and enter down The Names of all the _Fools in Town_; Or number those who _live by Ink_, And _write_, altho' they cannot _think_; _Critics_, who judge, but cannot read, And _praise_, or _censure_--as they're _fee'd_; Or count _each Bard_ by _Self_ betray'd, Who thought, when fondled by _his Maid_, It was _Melpomene_ that smil'd, And mark'd him for her fav'rite _Child_, But finds the _Harvest_ of his Lines, Is to _fast twice_ for _once he dines_. As well the _Muse_ might one of these _Poets' Impossibilities_ Assay to do, and speed as well, As if She should attempt to tell The _Names_ and _Characters_ of _all_ That on the Name of _Satan_ call, That preach, and lie, and whine, and cant, Soldiers for _Hell's Church Militant_; And use the Head, the Heart, the Hand, To spread _its Doctrines_ thro' the Land. _Arithmetic herself_ were dumb, If task'd with such an endless Sum; Nor wou'd the _Muse_, tho' one more Line Wou'd all the Host of _Hell_ entwine, Bestow another drop of Ink, To map out an _infernal Sink_--