A wretched simile! of Eastern hue,
’Tis neither gaudy, elegant, or new;
Would you be all that ere poor bard desir’d,
Be read by parsons, by the fair admir’d,
To love and Laura tune th’enervate lyre,
Let hot-press’d paper[1] glow with am’rous fire;
Ambrosial flow’rs[2] twine round your mood and tense,
And labour’d nothings take the place of sense.