Oh you who deign my Book peruse,

Accuse Me not of Vanity,

These humble efforts of my Muse,

To deck so sweet and splendidly—

I gave Command, but ah in vain!

In Meaner, fitter, Garb to place

These Airy Offspring of my brain

Unworthy such a gaudy Case—

But he who ruled this great concern

An humble Agent of the Nine,

From long experience did discern,

Of these blank pages the design

“And shall the Muses gifts, he cried,

In vulgar calf unhonor’d dwell,

Ah No! but deck’d in crimson pride

Of Russian perfume sweetly smell—

Tho’ doom’d these pages to contain

Some lines Unworthy of their Aid,

Spun from a buckless plodding brain

And Amply o’er the leaves pervade,

Still some few gems as bright as rare,

Perchance be scantly scatter’d through,

From hands the Muses fonder Care,

And reverence sure to those were due”

Then deem me not or proud or vain,

Good Reader when my Book you view,

Such precious gems it doth contain,

But ah alas! their Number few—

For my fantastic Muse I own,

Doth here usurp with potent sway,

Scarce but her fantom flights alone,

And Visions light, these leaves display—

But ah! forgive her ramblings wild,

Ill fasom’d tho’ her presents be,

They’ve many a vacant hour beguiled,

And sweet her influence oft to Me.