Of ——'s imbecile review,
Whose page with adulation teems,
And makes me "beautifully blue."
But cockney praise is ebbing fast,
And Sappho's lute has lost its power,
And surely my career is past
Like Summer's brightest, loveliest flower.
Arcades ambo, Moore and me
Are Delia Crusca's sweetest doves,
And ours too is the poetry