From dusty shops neglected authors come,
Martyrs of Pies and Relics of the Bum.
And when false flowers of rhetoric thou woulds't cull,
Trust Nature, do not labour to be dull;
But write thy best, and to; and in each line,
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine.
With whate'er gall thou sett'st thyself to write,
Thy inoffensive satyrs never bite.
In thy felonious heart, though Venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish pen and dies.
All from Mac Flecknoe by John Dryden
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