Like G—ff—d, soak'd our wit in loyal zeal, And squeez'd the lemon upon C—g's veal: The public taste with Nelson's praises hit, And scrawl'd a Monody on Fox or Pitt....
Mr. Gifford's labours in the Anti-jacobin newspaper have already been noticed. A man does tolerably well if he can sell a few epigrams and corrections for a good place for life. With these nauseous performances the public has of late been so terribly surfeited, that he must have a stout stomach who does not actually sicken at the name of "monody." Yet what will not party swallow? These writers of insipid rhymes grow fat on praises and public dinners.
