I blame my breast that I no sooner read
Those noble pages,—each itself a roll,
Confirmatory of thy copious soul.—
Great “Baviad,” “Mæviad,” arrows of satire,
(Than none but epicures can fail t’admire)
Which spread destruction, and set earth[258] on fire,—
And to oblivion hurl’d, like rats and mice,
Those who then dared to pamper forth their vice,
And made a trade by trafficking in rhyme,—
Display’d their trash, and hawk’d it as sublime!