And empty all thy quiver on the foe:—
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No pause—no rest—till weltering on the ground
The poisonous hydra lies, and pierced with many a wound.
Thou too!—the nameless Bard,[[311]]—whose honest zeal
For law, for morals, for the public weal,
Pours down impetuous on thy country’s foes
The stream of verse, and many-languaged prose;
Thou too! though oft thy ill-advised dislike
The guiltless head with random censure strike,—