If, as I humbly amble, ye complain

I give my Pegasus too loose a rein,

’Tis time to call my Betters to defend me.

Come, Swift! who made so merry with the Nine;

With thy far bolder Muse, Oh, shelter mine!

When she is style’d a slattern, and a trollop;—

Force stubborn Gravity to doff his gloom;

Point to thy Cælia, and thy Dressing-Room,

Thy Nymph at bed-time, and thy fame’d Maw-Wallop!

Come, Sterne!—whose prose, with all a Poet’s art,