AS I read over old John Dryden’ s verse,
The rhymes of men like William Blake, and Gay,
The stuff that helped fill Edmund Waller’ s purse,
And that which placed on Marvell’ s brow the bay,
It doth appear to me that in those times
The Muses quaffed not sparkling wine, but grog,
And that to grow immortal through one’ s rhymes
Was’ bout as hard as falling off a log.