Nor more he listened to the Politician,
Who lectured on his left, a formal prig,
Of Belgium’s, Greece’s, Turkey’s sad condition,
Not worth a cheese, an olive, or a fig;
Nor yet unto the critic, fierce and big,
Who, holding forth, all lonely, in his glory,
Called one a sad bad Poet—and a Whig,
And one, a first-rate proser—and a Tory;
So critics judge, now, of a song or story.
Nay, when the coachman spoke about the ’Leger,