The sprightly nymph, who never broke her rest
For tottering crowns or mighty lands oppress’d,
Finds broils and battles, but neglects them all
For songs and suits, a birth-day, or a ball: 
The keen warm man o’erlooks each idle tale
For “Monies wanted,” and “Estates on Sale;”
While some with equal minds to all attend,
Pleased with each part, and grieved to find an end. 
   So charm the news; but we who, far from town,
Wait till the postman brings the packet down,
Once in the week, a vacant day behold,
And stay for tidings, till they’re three days old: 
That day arrives; no welcome post appears,
But the dull morn a sullen aspect wears: 
We meet, but ah! without our wonted smile,
To talk of headaches, and complain of bile;
Sullen we ponder o’er a dull repast,
Nor feast the body while the mind must fast. 
   A master passion is the love of news,
Not music so commands, nor so the Muse: 
Give poets claret, they grow idle soon;
Feed the musician and he’s out of tune;
But the sick mind, of this disease possess’d,
Flies from all cure, and sickens when at rest. 
   Now sing, my Muse, what various parts compose
These rival sheets of politics and prose. 
   First, from each brother’s hoard a part they draw,
A mutual theft that never feared a law;
Whate’er they gain, to each man’s portion fall,
And read it once, you read it through them all: 
For this their runners ramble day and night,
To drag each lurking deed to open light;
For daily bread the dirty trade they ply,
Coin their fresh tales, and live upon the lie: 
Like bees for honey, forth for news they spring,-
Industrious creatures! ever on the wing;
Home to their several cells they bear the store,
Cull’d of all kinds, then roam abroad for more. 
   No anxious virgin flies to “fair Tweed-side;”
No injured husband mourns his faithless bride;
No duel dooms the fiery youth to bleed;
But through the town transpires each vent’rous deed. 
Should some fair frail one drive her prancing pair
Where rival peers contend to please the fair;
When, with new force, she aids her conquering eyes,
And beauty decks, with all that beauty buys: 
Quickly we learn whose heart her influence feels,
Whose acres melt before her glowing wheels. 
   To these a thousand idle themes succeed,
Deeds of all kinds, and comments to each deed. 
Here stocks, the state barometers, we view,
That rise or fall by causes known to few;
Promotion’s ladder who goes up or down;
Who wed, or who seduced, amuse the town;
What new-born heir has made his father blest;
What heir exults, his father now at rest;
That ample list the Tyburn-herald gives,
And each known knave, who still for Tyburn lives. 
   So grows the work, and now the printer tries
His powers no more, but leans on his allies. 
   When lo! the advertising tribe succeed,