Sons of Parnassus? whom I view above,
Not laurel-crown'd but clad in rusty black,
Not spurring Pegasus through Tempé's grove,
But pacing Grub Street on a jaded hack,
What reams of foolscap, while your brains ye rack,
Ye mar to make again! for sure, ere long,
Condemn'd to tread the bard's time-sanctioned track,
Ye all shall join the bailiff-haunted throng,
And reproduce in rags the rags ye blot in song.
X.