I say, in my slight way I may proceed
To play upon the surface of Humanity.
I write the World, nor care if the World read,
At least for this I cannot spare its vanity.
My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed
More foes by this same scroll: when I began it, I
Thought that it might turn out so—now I know it,
But still I am, or was, a pretty poet.