Others, more daring, fix their hope On rivaling the fame of Pope. Satyr's the word against the times— These catch the cadence of his rhymes, And borne from earth by Pope's strong wings, Their Muse aspires, and boldly flings Her dirt up in the face of kings. In these the spleen of Pope we find; But where the greatness of his mind? His numbers are their whole pretence, Mere strangers to his manly sense.
