William Whitehead

Alas! poor Master Laureat,
What, not another stanza?
Why, Sir, I fear, you've caught the cold,
Yclep'd the influenza.

No conquests to adorn your rhimes,
No vaunts nor threats terrific;
Instead of thunder, blood, and war,
Your lines run now pacific.

Your style is strangely alter'd, Sir,
From what 'twas heretofore;
You seem to me to be afraid
To vaunt and brag encore.