That show’d the rogues they lied:
The man recover’d of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
Oliver Goldsmith.
ON SMOLLETT
WHENCE could arise this mighty critic spleen,
The muse a trifler, and her theme so mean?
What had I done that angry Heaven should send
The bitterest foe where most I wished a friend?
Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name,