How often frustrate they of fame's award
Just because Fortune, as she listed, blew
Some slight bark's sails to bellying, mauled and marred
And forced to put about the First-rate True,
Such tacks but for a time: still—small-craft ride
At anchor, rot while Beddoes breasts the tide!
CLV
Dear, shall I tell you? There 's a simple test
Would serve, when people take on them to weigh
The worth of poets. "Who was better, best,