Since my sure craft was to thy calling bound!”
“Oh! vaunt of worthless art,” the swain replied,
Scowling contempt, “how pitiful this pride!
What are these specious gifts, these paltry gains,
But base rewards for ignominious pains?
With all thy tricking, still for bread we strive,
Thine is, proud wretch! the care that cannot thrive;
By all thy boasted skill and baffled hooks,
Thou gain’st no more than students by their books.
No more than I for my poor deeds am paid,