On every side. And seems it, in your sight,
So poor a trifle, that whate’er we write
Is introduced to every school of note
And taught the youth of quality by rote?
Nay, more! Our nobles, gorged, and swilled with wine,
Call, o’er the banquet, for a lay divine.
Here one, on whom the princely purple glows.
Snuffles some musty legend through his nose,
Slowly distils Hypsipyle’s sad fate,
And love-lorn Phyllis dying for her mate,