Oh! he's a favourite of Apollo's,
Who, for our good, in time of need,
Forsakes his fav'rite Muse and reed;
And boldly owning Britain's quarrels,
Tho' crown'd with bays will gather laurels.
Say, Miller,[165] why did'st thou supplant
Me of that fame I so much want?
Had'st thou not wrote I might have worn
Those laurels which thy head adorn.
Say, dost thou not thy castor grace