Anonymous, Poeta de Tristibus; Or, The Poet's Complaint
“ Unless some who are Poets too. They thrive by Rapine and Revenge, And making Enemies of Friends: Feeding on others hopes and fears, On Orphants groans, and Widows tears. In short, the World it self; and all We Trade, and Art, and Science call, Are grand Impostures; false and vain, Invented but to bring in gain. Astronomy does our Faith engage, And with dark Notions cheats the Age: But take off its Disguise, you'll see It is as feign'd as Poetry. Else let it for a certain show Whether this Globe has Wings or no, Or Ovid blame, who said, the Sun Did run away with Phaëton. ”
