And to his grave I do believe he'll go,
Sad dog's-meat dog, nor ever know
Whence all those riches flow
Which seem to spring about him where he is,
Finding their way to every mouth but his.—
I know such similes
By some are censured as not being savoury;
But still it's better than to talk of "knavery,"
And "wretched authors' slavery,"
With other words of ominous import.