Ah me! that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while!
XVII.
Ah! who can paint that hard and heavy time,
When first the scholar lists in learning's train,
And mounts her rugged steep, enforc'd to climb,
Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain,
From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane,
Wherein, alas! no sugar'd juices dwell,
For this the while one stripling's sluices drain
Another weepeth over chilblains fell,