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]