Amidst her towers, the dedicated horse
Shall be receiv’d, big with destructive force;
Till men shall say, when flames have brought her down,
‘Troy is no more, and Ilium was a town.’
Is this the way to please the Men of Taste,
The interrupter cries, this old Bombast?
I’m sick of Troy, and in as great a fright,
When some dull pedant wou’d her wars recite,
As was soft Paris, when compell’d to fight.
To shades and springs shall we awhile repair,