To a Gentleman, who requested a Copy of Verses from the Author.

I Have, before the Time prescrib'd by you,
 Expos'd my weak Production to your View,
 Which may, I hope, have Pardon at your Hand,
 Because produc'd to Light by your Command
 Perhaps you might expect some finish'd Ode,
 Or sacred Song, to sound the Praise of God;
 A glorious Thought, and laudable! But then
 Think what illit'rate Poet guides the Pen:
 Ill suit such Tasks with one who holds the Plough,
 Such lofty Subjects with a Fate so low. 

SIR, were your Eloquence and Learning mine,
 And I, like you, a Fav'rite of the Nine;
 I quickly would Parnassus' Summit climb,
 And find a Hero worthy of my Rhyme:
 Nor should my Muse the Grecian Monarchs trace,
 Nor would I celebrate the Trojan Race;
 Nor any of those martial Sons of Fame,
 Pagans, unworthy of a Christian's Theme. 
Far nobler Thoughts my grateful Voice should raise,
 In lofty Strains, to great MESSIAH's Praise:
 I'd joyfully resound his wond'rous Birth,
 And paint his Godlike Virtues, whilst on Earth;
 Then, with Reluctance, Horror, and Surprize,
 I'd mournfully relate his Agonies;
 I'd trace the heav'nly Hero to the Tree,
 Sing what he suffer'd there for you and me;
 Next, in heroic Numbers, would I tell,
 How soon he baffled Death, and vanquish'd Hell,
 Subdu'd the Grave, and shew'd the glorious Way,
 From Realms of Darkness, to eternal Day. 
Such noble Subjects should my Lays excite;
 And you, my Patron, would in such delight;
 Grateful to me, when you, well-pleas'd, should view
 Th'accomplish'd sacred Song inscrib'd to you. 

BUT now I must omit MESSIAH's Praise,
 Lest I degrade him with unworthy Lays;
 My Fate compels me silent to remain,
 For want of Learning to improve my Strain:
 By which no Thought, tho' well conceiv'd, can rise
 To full Perfection, but in Embryo dies:
 Yet my unpolish'd Genius will produce,
 And bring forth something, tho' of little Use. 

THUS, in the Country, often have I found,
 Thro' slothful Man's Neglect, a Plat of Ground,
 Waste and uncultivated, void of Seeds,
 Producing nothing, but some trifling Weeds. 

BUT why stand I my Fate accusing so? 
The Field calls me to Labour; I must go:
 The Kine low after Meat; the hungry Steed,
 Neighing, complains he wants his usual Feed. 
Then, Sir, adieu: Accept what you did crave,
 And be propitious to your humble Slave.