A wintry figure, like a withered thorn.
The shelves are full, all other themes are sped;
Hackneyed and worn to the last flimsy thread,
Satire has long since done his best, and curs’d;
And loathsome ribaldry has done his worst;
Fancy has sported all her powers away
In tales and trifles, and in children’s play;
And ’tis the sad complaint, and almost true,
Whate’er we write, we bring forth nothing new.
’Twere new, indeed, to see a bard all fire,