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Now the light people bend to other aims; A lust of scribbling every breast inflames; Our youth, our senators, with bays are crowned, And rhymes eternal as our feasts go round. Scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim. Hor. Epeat. ii. 1. But every desperate blockhead dares to write, Verse is the trade of every living wight. Francis.

"Clauditur hoc tumulo corpus Reverendi pii doctique viri D. Benjamin Rolfe, ecclesiae Christi quae est in Haverhill pastoris fidelissimi; qui domi suae ab hostibus barbare trucidatus. A laboribus suis requievit mane diei sacrae quietis, Aug. XXIX, anno Dom. MDCCVIII. AEtatis suae XLVI."

"Clauditur hoc tumulo corpus Reverendi pii doctique viri D. Benjamin Rolfe, ecclesiae Christi quae est in Haverhill pastoris fidelissimi; qui domi suae ab hostibus barbare trucidatus. A laboribus suis requievit mane diei sacrae quietis, Aug. XXIX, anno Dom. MDCCVIII. AEtatis suae XLVI."

Scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim, Horace had written in half-humorous bitterness; the crowd of names that flit like autumn leaves through the pages of Ovid represent probably but a small part of the immense production.

The technical dexterity in versification which had resulted from the feverish activity of the last forty years, had produced a disastrous consequence. All the world was seized with the mania for writing poetry: "Scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim." The young Pisos were among the number.