EPILOGUE

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?”