I seek not by more labour'd lays To catch the slipp'ry tail of praise, Nor will I run a mad career 'Gainst genius which I most revere; When Phoebus bursts with genuine fire, The little stars at once retire; Who cares a farthing for those lays Which you can neither blame, nor praise? I cannot match a Churchill's skill, But may be Langhorne when I will.
