On princely love-lays driveled without thought,
And the crude trash on citron couches wrought?
You spread the table, ’tis a master-stroke,
And give the shivering guest a threadbare cloak;
Then, while his heart with gratitude dilates
At the glad vest and the delicious cates,
“Tell me,” you cry, “for truth is my delight,
What says the town of me, and what I write?”
He cannot; he has neither ears nor eyes.
But shall I tell you who your bribes despise?