As Merc'ry travell'd thro' a Wood, 
(Whose Errands are more Fleet than Good) 
An Elephant before him lay, 
That much encumber'd had the Way: 
The Messenger, who's still in haste, 
Wou'd fain have bow'd, and so have past; 
When up arose th' unweildy Brute, 
And wou'd repeat a late Dispute, 

In which (he said) he'd gain'd the Prize 
From a wild Boar of monstrous Size: 
But Fame (quoth he) with all her Tongues, 
Who Lawyers, Ladies, Soldiers wrongs, 
Has, to my Disadvantage, told 
An Action throughly Bright and Bold; 
Has said, that I foul Play had us'd, 
And with my Weight th' Opposer bruis'd; 
Had laid my Trunk about his Brawn, 
Before his Tushes cou'd be drawn; 
Had stunn'd him with a hideous Roar, 
And twenty-thousand Scandals more: 
But I defy the Talk of Men, 
Or Voice of Brutes in ev'ry Den; 
Th' impartial Skies are all my Care, 
And how it stands Recorded there. 
Amongst you Gods, pray, What is thought? 
Quoth Mercury?Then have you Fought! 

Solicitous thus shou'd I be 
For what's said of my Verse and Me; 


Or shou'd my Friends Excuses frame, 
And beg the Criticks not to blame 
(Since from a Female Hand it came) 
Defects in Judgment, or in Wit; 
They'd but reply - Then has she Writ! 

Our Vanity we more betray, 
In asking what the World will say, 
Than if, in trivial Things like these, 
We wait on the Event with ease; 
Nor make long Prefaces, to show 
What Men are not concern'd to know: 
For still untouch'd how we succeed, 
'Tis for themselves, not us, they Read; 
Whilst that proceeding to requite, 
We own (who in the Muse delight) 
'Tis for our Selves, not them, we Write. 
Betray'd by Solitude to try 
Amusements, which the Prosp'rous fly; 


And only to the Press repair, 
To fix our scatter'd Papers there; 
Tho' whilst our Labours are preserv'd, 
The Printers may, indeed, be starv'd.