Your Foe; no Dunciad arm'd with power,
To dive into the Depths of your profound,
And with a vile assemblage gather'd there
Whip the pale Moonshine from your with'ring Bays.—
Is there, who sick of Pleasure's daily Draught,
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In repetition mawkish, or who tir'd
Thinks Life an Idiot's Tale? or whom the Hand
Of [Disappointment] snatches from the Vice
That waits on power? or who has lost a friend,