Why stay, a ghost, on the Lethean wharf,
Envelop'd in Scotch mist and gloomy fogs?
Why, but because thou art some puny dwarf,
Some hopeless imp, like Riquet with the Tuft,
Fearing, for all thy wit, to be rebuff'd,
Or bullied by our great reviewing Gogs?
XV.
What in this masquing age
Maketh Unknowns so many and so shy?
What but the critic's page?