20
How a pale crew, like helpless Otway, shed
The proud, big tear on song-extorted bread;
Or knew, like Goldsmith, some would stoop to choose
Contempt, and for the mortar quit the Muse.
One of this train—and of these wretches one—
Slave to the Muses, and to Misery son—
Now prays the Father of all Fates to shed
On Henry, laurels, on his poet, bread!
Unhappy art! decreed thine owner's curse;