This age is so fertile of mighty events, That people complain, with some reason, no doubt, Besides the time lost, and besides the expence, With reading the papers they're fairly worn out;
The past is no longer an object of care, The present consumes all the time they can spare. Thus grumbles the reader, but still he reads on With his pence and his paper unwilling to part:
He sees the world passing, men going and gone, Some riding in coaches, and some in a cart: For a peep at the farce a subscription he'll give,— Revolutions must happen, and printers must live:
For a share of your favour we aim with the rest: To enliven the scene we'll exert all our skill, What we have to impart shall be some of the best, And Multum in Parvo our text, if you will;
Since we never admitted a clause in our creed, That the greatest employment of life is — to read. The king of the French and the queen of the North At the head of the play, for the season, we find:
From the spark that we kindled, a flame has gone forth To astonish the world and enlighten mankind: With a code of new doctrines the universe rings, And Paine is addressing strange sermons to kings.
Thus launch'd, as we are, on the ocean of news, In hopes that your pleasure our pains will repay, All honest endeavours the author will use To furnish a feast for the grave and the gay:
At least he'll essay such a track to pursue That the world shall approve — and his news shall be true.
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