Ye sons of Parnassus, whose brains are inspir’d
With envy or madness, dame dullness, or wine,
Who wish to be flatter’d, or prais’d, or admir’d,
Leave thinking, and fly to the banks of the Tyne:
No wit is requir’d
To make you admir’d,
Let doggrel run limping thro’ each crippled line;
No humour degrades,
Nor genius pervades
The verses sublime of our Bards of the Tyne.