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; 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. I sing of NEWS, and all those vapid sheets The rattling hawker vends through gaping streets; Whate'er their name, whate'er the time they fly, Damp from the press, to charm the reader's eye: For soon as Morning dawns with roseate hue, The HERALD of the morn arises too; POST after POST succeeds, and, all day long, GAZETTES and LEDGERS swarm, a noisy throng. When evening comes, she comes with all her train; Of LEDGERS, CHRONICLES, and POSTS again. Like bats, appearing when the sun goes down, From holes obscure and corners of the town. Of all these triflers, all like these, I write; Oh! like my subject could my song delight, The crowd at Lloyd's one poet's name should raise, And all the Alley echo to his praise. In shoals the hours their constant numbers bring, Like insects waking to th' advancing spring; Which take their rise from grubs obscene that lie In shallow pools, or thence ascend the sky: Such are these base ephemeras, so born To die before the next revolving morn. Yet thus they differ: insect-tribes are lost In the first visit of a winters frost; While these remain, a base but constant breed, Whose swarming sons their short-lived sires succeed; No changing season makes their number less, Nor Sunday shines a sabbath on the press! Then lo! the sainted MONITOR is born, Whose pious face some sacred texts adorn: As artful sinners cloak the secret sin, To veil with seeming grace the guile within; So moral Essays on his front appear, But all is carnal business in the rear; The fresh-coin'd lie, the secret whisper'd last, And all the gleanings of the six days past. With these retired through half the Sabbath-day, The London lounger yawns his hours away: Not so, my little flock! your preacher fly, Nor waste the time no worldly wealth can buy; But let the decent maid and sober clown Pray for these idlers of the sinful town: This day, at least, on nobler themes bestow, Nor give to WOODFALL, or the world below. But, Sunday past, what numbers flourish then, What wondrous labours of the press and pen; Diurnal most, some thrice each week affords, Some only once,--O avarice of words! When thousand starving minds such manna seek, To drop the precious food but once a week. Endless it were to sing the powers of all, Their names, their numbers; how they rise and fall: Like baneful herbs the gazer's eye they seize, Rush to the head, and poison where they please: Like idle flies, a busy, buzzing train, They drop their maggots in the trifler's brain: