Momus, to be a Poet Laureate,
Has strained his wits through an iron grate.
For he has rhymes and rhymes, and double strains,
And golden verses, and all kinds of veins,
Now to the press he presses hastily,
To sell his friends stinking eternity.
For who would be eternal in such fashion,
To be a witness to his condemnation.
— Thomas Bastard, Book 2, Epigram 21: In Momum