Hast wanted many a year—a decent nap.
Perchance an editor, by some mysterious accident
Made passing rich with five-and-forty shillings,
First bore thee off in triumph; ’tis pity then
Thou canst not speak; else should we hear
Of much before unpublished; of countless ‘bills’
Unpaid; of libels prudently suppress’d;
Of ‘Stanzas’ much, of ‘Lines’ innumerable;
And love-sick ‘Songs’ to goddesses mundane,
All wickedly committed to the Persian’s god!