For prose he gets with conscience clear,
Full twice five hundred pounds a year;
Yet should his rhymes a folio fill,
They’d never pay his printer’s bill;
But on his shelf in peace recline,
And, but to light his candles, shine.
Claudite jam rivos, pueri: sat prata biberunt. Vir.
To “No snake in the grass,” on his not replying to the lines lately address’d to him.
Contremuit remus.