"To witch the world with noble horsemanship."
While all the rest are riding at their will,
The poor hack-author wags his weary quill;
Save through his garret-roof he knows no rein;
No stir-up, but when publishers complain;
No shay drawn up for him; pegg'd to the shop, he
Must hear no cry of hounds—but "copy, copy!"
He knows no hunter but the printer's devil,
Comes to no checks but those when critics cavil,
Or such as touch his raw, if he's a feeler,