An’ did ilk feeble thought devour;
Nor did its humble, helpless state,
One fraction of their rage abate.
Tom Touchy, one of high pretence
To taste an’ learning, wit an’ sense,
Was at the board the foremost man,
Its imperfections a’ to scan.
Soon as the line he seem’d to doubt,
The meaner critics scratch’d it out;
Still to be nam’d on Touchy’s side,