And in thy graver verse thy nation's might;
O Pan-pipe, blown at England's break of day,
Still echo through her noon thy clear delight!
POPE
BEHOLD the foe of Grub Street's lettered fools,
The Richard Crookback of the kings of rhyme,
Forging his couplets of heroic chime,
And beating all his masters at their rules;
With what an arsenal of shining tools