IX.

Sons of Parnassus! whom I view above, Not laurel-crown’d, but clad in rusty black; Not spurring Pegasus through Tempè’s grove, But pacing Grub-street on a jaded hack; What reams of foolscap, while your brains ye rack, Ye mar to make again! for sure, ere long, Condemn’d to tread the bard’s time-sanction’d track, Ye all shall join the bailiff-haunted throng, And reproduce, in rags, the rags ye blot in song,