I say, in my slight way I may proceed

To play upon the surface of Humanity.

I write the World, nor care if the World read,

At least for this I cannot spare its vanity.

My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed

More foes by this same scroll: when I began it, I

Thought that it might turn out so—now I know it,[753]But still I am, or was, a pretty poet.