VIII.
But, ah! in vain 'gainst Thee we write,
In vain thy Verse we maul!
Our sharpest Satyr's thy Delight,
For——Blood! thou'lt stand it all.[48]
IX.
Thunder, 'tis said, the Laurel spares;
Nought but thy Brows could blast it:
And yet——O curst, provoking Stars!
Thy Comfort is, thou hast it.