In Imitation of Anacreon

LET 'em Censure: what care I?
The Herd of Criticks I defie.
Let the Wretches know, I write
Regardless of their Grace, or Spight.
No, no: the Fair, the Gay, the Young
Govern the Numbers of my Song.

All that They approve is sweet :
And All is Sense, that They repeat.

Bid the warbling Nine retire :
Venus, String thy Servant's Lyre :
Love shall be my endless Theme :
Pleasure shall triumph over Fame :
And when these Maxims I decline,
Apollo, may Thy Fate be Mine :
May I grasp at empty Praise;
And lose the Nymph, to gain the Bays.