All their discourse on modern Poets ran;
For in the Muses was their sole delight;—
They talk’d of such, and such, and such a man;
Of those who could, and those who could not write.
It cost them very little pains
To count the modern Poets, who had brains.
’Twas a small difficulty;—’twasn’t any;
They were so few:
But to cast up the scores of men
Who wield a stump they call a pen,