My palsied powers, exhausted, weak,
The scoff of friends and neighbours.
They speak me insolent and rude,
Light, trivial, puerile, and crude,
The child of pride and vanity.
Poor Tuscan-like improvisation
Is but of English sense castration,
And infantine inanity.
Such idle rhymes, like Sybil's leaves,
Kindly the scattering winds receive—