On every subject superseded,
    My favorite topics all invaded,
    I scarcely dip my pen in praise,
    When fifty bardlings grasp my bays;
    Or let me touch a drop of satire,
    (I once knew something of the matter),
    Just fifty bardlings take the trouble,
    To be my tuneful worship's double.
    Fine similies that nothing fit,
    Joe Miller's, that must pass for wit;
    The dull, dry, brain-besieging jokes,
    The humour that no laugh provokes--
    The nameless, worthless, witless rancours,
    The rage that souls of scribblers cankers--
    (Administer'd in gall go thick,
    It makes even Sunday critic's sick!)
    Disgust my passion, fill my place,
    And snatch my prize before my face.

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