You little know what epigram contains,
Who deem it but a jest in jocund strains.
He rather jokes, who writes what horrid meat
The plagued Thyestes and vext Tereus eat;
Or tells who robed the boy with melting wings;
Or of the shepherd Polyphemus sings.
Our Muse disdains by fustian to excel,
By rant to rattle or in buskins swell.
Though turgid themes all men admire, adore,
Be well assured they read my poems more.