And turning pig-stys into palaces.
But, worst of all, that wordy tribe,
Who sit down, hang them, to describe;
Who, if they can but make things fine,
Have consciences by no means tender
In sinking all that, will not shine,
All vulgar facts, that spoil their splendour:—
As Irish country squires they say,
Whene'er the Viceroy travels nigh,
Compound with beggars, on the way,