Remains a difficulty still,To purchase fame by writing ill?From Flecknoe down to Howard's time,How few have reach'd the low sublime?For, when our high-born Howard died,Blackmore, alone, his place supplied:And lest a chasm should intervene,When death had finish'd Blackmore's reign,The leaden crown devolv'd to thee,Great Lord Grimstone, author of a play called Love in an Hollow Tree. poet of the Hollow-tree.But ah! how unsecure thy throne!A thousand bards thy right disown:They plot to turn, in factious zeal,Duncinea to a common-weal;And, with rebellious arms, pretend,An equal priv'lege to descend.In bulk there are not more degrees,From elephants to mites in cheese,Than what a curious eye may trace,In creatures of the rhiming race.From bad to worse, and worse they fall;But who can reach the worst of all?For though, in nature, depth and heightAre equally held infinite,In poetry the height we know;'Tis only infinite below.For instance: when you rashly think,No rhimer can like Welsted sink,0