You have your salary; was't for that you wrought?
And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise!
You're shabby fellows—true—but poets still,
And duly seated on the immortal hill.
VII.
Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows—
Perhaps some virtuous blushes, let them go—
To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs,
And for the fame you would engross below,
The field is universal, and allows