And roar the loudest, though they never pay.
The fops are proud of scandal, for they cry,
At every lewd, low character,—That's I.
He, who writes letters to himself, would swear,
The world forgot him, if he was not there.
}
{ What should a poet do? 'Tis hard for one
{ To pleasure all the fools that would be shown;
{ And yet not two in ten will pass the town.
Most coxcombs are not of the laughing kind;