Well!— strange it is, that men will still apply
Things to themselves, that authors never meant:
Each country merchant asks me, “Is it I
On whom your rhyming ridicule is spent?”
Friends, hold your tongues — such myriads of your race
Adorn Columbia's fertile, favour'd climes,
A man might rove seven years from place to place
Ere he would know the subject of my rhymes.—
Perhaps in Jersey is this creature known,
Perhaps New-England claims him for her own:
And if from Fancy's world this wight I drew,
What is the imagin'd character to you?”