LITTLE do they who glibly talk of verse
Know what they talk about, and what is worse,
Think they are judges if they dare to pass
Sentence on higher heads.
The mule and ass
Know who have made them what they are, and heed
From far the neighing of the generous steed.
Gell, Drummond, Hare, and wise and witty Ward
Knew at first sight and sound the genuine bard,
But the street hackneys, fed on nosebag bran,
Assail the poet and defame the man.
Let them but try to write as good a line
As that, however bad, which they malign,
And tho’ their life upon the task were spent,
Scarce would that life accomplish that intent.
I never was too bashful, yet have stood
Low in the shadow of the Delphic wood,
While Bobus, older than myself, four years,
Sat with the Muse’s first-created peers,
The high Choregus of the classic song
To whom alone all ancient lyres belong,
To whom from Dirce’s rock came Pindar down
And proud Lucretius held his fresher crown.