I could wish people would believe, what I am pretty
certain they will not, that I have been much less concerned about fame
than I durst declare till this occasion, when methinks I should find
more credit than I could heretofore: since my writings have had their
fate already, and it is too late to think of prepossessing the reader in
their favour. I would plead it as some merit in me, that the world has
never been prepared for these trifles by prefaces, biased by
recommendations, dazzled with the names of great patrons, wheedled with
fine reasons and pretences, or troubled with excuses. I confess it was
want of consideration that made me an author; I writ because it amused
me; I corrected because it was as pleasant to me to correct as to write;
and I published because I was told I might please such as it was a
credit to please. To what degree I have done this, I am really ignorant;
I had too much fondness for my productions to judge of them at first,
and too much judgment to be pleased with them at last. But I have reason
to think they can have no reputation which will continue long, or which
deserves to do so: for they have always fallen short, not only of what I
read of others, but even of my own ideas of poetry.
If any one should imagine I am not in earnest, I desire him to reflect
that the ancients (to say the least of them) had as much genius as we:
and that to take more pains, and employ more time, cannot fail to
produce more complete pieces.
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