Content at least that I have once agen
Poured scorn upon the puny writing men
That chaffer for the laurel wreath of fame,
And think their trash deserves a lasting name.
Immortal, I behold the passing show
Of little witlings ruling things below,
And smile to see, repeated o'er and o'er,
The literary tricks I lash'd before,
And lash again, with satisfaction deep;
And other 'rods in pickle' I shall keep