But here his cares and labours all forgot.
Stain’d, torn, and blotted every noble page,
Stood the chief poets of a former age—
And of the present; not their works complete, }
But in such portions as on bulks we meet, }
The refuse of the shops, thrown down upon the street. }
There Shakspeare, Spenser, Milton found a place, 140
With some a nameless, some a shameless, race,
Which many a weary walker resting reads,
And, pondering o’er the short relief, proceeds,