I’d have no poet to sway his lute o’er me,
A fig for the head that such nonsense contains.
I’d be a Rothschild! immortal in story,
As the fellows who live by their stanzas and brains.
Tell me of Southeys and Scotts, they are ninnies
To foolishly trifle with time as they do,
Give me the music of soul-witching guineas,
While they address lays to the “summer skies blue!”
What if they scribble like Virgils or Plinies,