Thomas Edwards - To the Editor of Mr. Pope's Works lyrics

O born in luckless hour, with every muse And every grace to foe! what wayward fate Drives thee with fell and unrelenting hate Each choicest work of genius to abuse? Sufficed it not with sacrilegious views Great Shakespeare's awful shade to violate: And his fair Paradise contaminate, Whom impious Lauder blushes to accuse? Must Pope, thy friend, mistaken, hapless bard! (To prove no sprig of laurel ever can grow Unblasted by thy venom) must he groan Now daubed with flattery, now by censure scarred, Disguised, deformed, and made the public show In motley weeds and colours not his own?