TYWO, by critic rod disgrac'd; But not one whit amended, Suspecting L—e's well known taste, By ev'ry Muse befriended;
Sore vow'd revenge, rag'd, stamp'd, and swore, And in his anger's fulness, Call'd upon each immortal power: Yet none would hear but Dulness.
Propitious to her Fav'rite's cry, She from the clouds descended; But all she could, was — *"Oh my eye!" And there her satire ended.
Thrice happy Bard! whose friends and foes, Alike conspire to crown thee; When sons of Genius deck thy brows, Or Dulness' brats disown thee.
* Though these were the concluding words of the libel, the Epigrammatist confesses he stands in need of an apology for contaminating sacred Poesy, with materials raked out of the dust-cart.
