Base as they are, this rancorous royal crew
Seem baser still, when they are praised by you.
By you adorned in regal garb they shine,
Sweat through your verse, and stink in every line.
True child of folly — eldest of her tribe —
How could you dream that you were worth a bribe.—
Ill-fated scribbler, with a pointless quill,
Retract the threat you dare not to fulfil:
Round your own neck the wythe or halter twine,
And be the science of a hangman thine:—
Have we from you purloined one shred of wit,
Or did we imitate one line you writ?
Peace to your verse!— we do not rob the dead,
The clay-cold offspring of a brazen head.
Doctor! retire! what madness would it be
To point artillery at a mite like thee?—
Such noxious vermin clambering from their shell,
By squibs and crackers might be killed as well.
But, if you must torment the world with rhymes,
( Perhaps you came to curse us for our crimes )
In sleepy odes indulge your smoky wit,
Pindarics would your happy genius fit —
With your coarse white-wash daub some miscreant's face,
Puppies advanced, or traitors in disgrace:
To gain immense renown we leave you free,
Go, scratch and scribble, uncontrouled by me:—
Haste to the realms of nonsense and despair —
The ghosts of murdered rhymes will meet you there;
Like rattling chains provoke unceasing fears,
And with eternal jinglings — stun your ears.