Oft did the grammar to their patience yield,
The Latin oft and stubborn Greek they spoke;
How jocund hied they to the cricket field!
How flew the ball before their sturdy stroke!
Let not a Wakefield mock their plodding toil,
Their text corrupt and pedagogue obscure;
Nor Porson hear, with a disdainful smile,
What stripes a slow-pac’d tyro must endure.
The boast of critic skill may worms devour,
And all that study, all that wit e’er gave,