X.

So fares the follower in the Muses' train; He toils to starve, and only lives in death; We slight him, till our patronage is vain, Then round his skeleton a garland wreathe, And o'er his bones an empty requiem breathe-- Oh! with what tragic horror would he start, (Could he be conjured from the grave beneath) To find the stage again a Thespian cart, And elephants and colts down-trampling Shakespeare's art.