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His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung,

By blockheads' daring into madness stung;

His well-won bays, than life itself more dear,

By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear;

Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd in th' unequal strife,

The hapless Poet flounders on thro' life:

Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd,

And fled each Muse that glorious once inspir'd,

Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age,

Dead even resentment for his injur'd page,

He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage!

So, by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd,

For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast,

By toil and famine wore to skin and bone,

Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch's

son.

O Dulness! portion of the truly blest!

Calm shelter'd haven of eternal

rest!

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce

extremes

Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams.

If mantling high she fills the golden cup,

With sober, selfish ease they sip it up:

Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve,

They only wonder 'some folks' do

not starve.

The grave, sage hern thus easy picks his frog,