A name—a verse unsanctioned by the muse,
The place of wit and poetry supply,
And jingling jests which sound with sense confuse,
Will make the wags almost with laughter die.
For who to dumb attentiveness a prey,
This pleasing power of folly e’er resigned,
Kept the warm precincts of the court all day,
Nor cast one lagging, lingering joke behind?
In some fond jest the weary soul relies,
Some tinkling thought, the closing eyes require