A feeble brain, that at a gen'ral dye
Had got the sable hue of infamy.
He buzzles like a bustard in a wind,
And with his aio's strikes the vulgar blind,
In whom, if we believe Pythagoras,
110I think the soul of Battus housèd was.
He is demanded why he thus does bawl
'Gainst soaring wits, not worms that earthly crawl?
Clothing his face with impudence, his looks
With pride, and with high self-conceit (his books,