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,