On you will come the gibes of all the land
If that old grandeur fall
From eminence so great.
’Tis vile, thou sweetest singer upon earth—
’Tis very vile, thou bard of every sea—
Poor poet, what will bygone praise be worth,
And what avail thine ancient fame to thee,
If bathos blur thy state?
You—you—whose Muse had dainty, dancing feet,
If with a careless pen you mar her grace,