And down, kerslap! he tumbles! I have fancied,
Like frogs puffed up with pride, myself an ox;
And grew so swollen with my own vain-glory,
That I was doomed to burst. My fragments fell
Upon that new laid stage expressly built,
[40]By Mrs. B., to bear me stiffly up.
Thus I am left a prey
For some rude knaves that will for weeks yet hide me.
Remorseless scribblers of the press, I hate ye!
I feel ye at my throat,—yet there is one—