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Then spouts and foams, and cries at every line
(The Lord forgive him!), 'Bravo! grand! divine!
Hoarse with those praises (which, by flatt'ry fed,
Dependence barters for her bitter bread), He strides and stamps along with creaking boot,
Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot;
build the lofty
Ye, who aspire to rhyme,' Believe not all who laud your false 'sublime;'
But if some friend shall hear your work, and say,
'Expunge that stanza, lop that line away,' And, after fruitless efforts, you return Without amendment, and he answers,
That instant throw your paper in the fire, Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire; But if (true bard!) you scorn to condescend,
And will not alter what you can't defend, If you will breed this bastard of your brains, We'll have no words I've only lost my pains.
All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues, As yawning waiters fly Fitzscribble's lungs; Yet on he mouths ten minutes - tedious each 809 As prelate's homily or placeman's speech; Long as the last years of a lingering lease, When riot pauses until rents increase. While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays
O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways,
If by some chance he walks into a well, And shouts for succour with stentorian yell, 'A rope! help, Christians, as ye hope for grace!
Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace; For there his carcass he might freely fling, From frenzy or the humour of the thing. Though this has happen'd to more bards than one; I'll tell you Budgell's story, — and have done.
Then thousand schemes of petulance and pride Despatch her scheming children far and wide:
Some east, some west, some every where but north,
In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth.
'First on the head of him who did this deed
on him and all his
My curse shall light,
With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er
That art and nature may compare their