Yet sometimes Artless Poets, when the rage
Of a warm Fancy does their minds ingage,
Puff'd with vain pride, presume they understand,
And boldly take the Trumpet in their hand;
Their Fustian Muse each Accident confounds;
Nor can she fly, but rise by leaps and bounds,
Till their small stock of Learning quickly spent,
Their Poem dyes for want of nourishment:
In vain Mankind the hot-brain'd fools decryes,
No Censures can unveil his eyes:
With Impudence the Laurel they invade,
Resolv'd to like the Monsters they have made.
Of a warm Fancy does their minds ingage,
Puff'd with vain pride, presume they understand,
And boldly take the Trumpet in their hand;
Their Fustian Muse each Accident confounds;
Nor can she fly, but rise by leaps and bounds,
Till their small stock of Learning quickly spent,
Their Poem dyes for want of nourishment:
In vain Mankind the hot-brain'd fools decryes,
No Censures can unveil his eyes:
With Impudence the Laurel they invade,
Resolv'd to like the Monsters they have made.
Boileau - Art of Poetry
