Fell murder walks his lonely round;
No room for peace, no room for you;
Adieu, celestial Nymph, adieu!
Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son, 45
Nor all the art of Addison,
Pope’s heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller’s ease,
Nor Milton’s mighty self, must please:
Instead of these a formal band,
In furs and coifs, around me stand; 50
With sounds uncouth and accents dry,