AND now, methinks, some Criticks smiling cry,
How Folly does that Sex betray
To superstitious Vanity!
Could nothing less, than Pindar's lofty Verse,
Adorn a paltry Mongril's Hearse?
Sure she's insufferably dull, or nobler Themes are scarce,

Hold rigid Censors, I reply,
Catullus of a Sparrow sung;
Scribonius writ upon a Fly,
And Goddeus for an Owl his Lyre strung.
Ovid, in sweet tho' mournful Lays,
Eternaliz'd a Parrot's Praise.
Melancion writ upon an Ant,
And the learn'd Lipsius prais'd an Elephant.
Cease then this Elegy to scorn,
The Verse my Subject suits,
Tho' Jill was but a Bitch in Form,
Her Sense was more than Brutes.