Yet were they not averse to noisy fame,
Or shrank reluctant from her ruder blast,
But still aspired to raise their sinking name,
And fondly hoped that name might ever last.
Hence each proud volume, to the wondering eye,
Rivals the gaudy glare of Tyrrel’s[16] urn;
Where ships, wigs, Fame, and Neptune blended lie,
And weeping cherubs for their bodies mourn.
For who with rhymes e’er rack’d his weary brain,