CIX.

What! can I prove "a lion" then no more? A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling? To bear the compliments of many a bore, And sigh, "I can't get out," like Yorick's starling;[264] Why then I'll swear, as poet Wordy swore (Because the world won't read him, always snarling), That Taste is gone, that Fame is but a lottery, Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie.[265]