Some monkish history, perhaps is laid.
With store of barbarous Latin at command,
Though armed with puns and jingling quibble's might,
Yet could not these soothe Time's remorseless hand
Or save their labours from eternal night.
Full many an elegy has mourned its fate,
Beneath some pasty 'cabined, cribbed, confined';
Full many an ode has soared in lofty state,
Fixed to a kite, and quivering in the wind.
Here too, perhaps, neglected now, may lie