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derived no satisfaction from public approbation. For I have seen reason to believe, that fame, acquired by appropriating the labours of others, neither improves the head nor the heart of the usurper.

The preface was formerly a supplication to the reader, for mercy and favour, somewhat in the style of Bayes's prologue: of late, it has rather consisted of an explanation of the author's claims to respect, and a declaration of his literary alliances, under colour of acknowledgements to his friends. My own opinion has always been, that it ought to bear some relation to the book which it is designed to introduce; and as nothing can be more miscellaneous than my volumes, I trust it will not be thought irrelevant, if the preface should partake of their nature.







Sterne, for whose sake I plod thro'miry ways
Of antic wit, and quibbling mazes drear,
Let not thy shade malignant censure fear,
Tho' aught of borrow'd mirth my search betrays.
Long slept that mirth in dust of ancient days,
(Erewhile to Guise, or wanton Valois dear)
Till wak’d by thee in Skelton's joyous pile,
She flung on Tristram her capricious rays.
But the quick tear, that checks our wond’ring smile,
In sudden pause, or unexpected story,
Owns thy true mast’ry; and Le Feore's woes,
Mariu's wand'rings, and the Pris'ner's throes
Fix thee conspicuous on the shrine of glory.

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