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Poem	YOUR News and Review, sir. I’ve read through and through, sir, With little admiring or blaming; The Papers are barren Of home-news or foreign, No murders or rapes worth the naming. Our friends, the Reviewers, Those chippers and hewers, Are judges of mortar and stone, sir; But of meet or unmeet, In a fabric complete, I’ll boldly pronounce they are none, sir; My goose-quill too rude is To tell all your goodness Bestow’d on your servant, the Poet; Would to God I had one Like a beam of the sun, And then all the world, sir, should know it!
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