Hadst thou a literary sense of shame,
How wouldst thou crush, and toss, and rend, and gore
The printing press, and hands that work therefore,
For the sad trash that issues from the same.
If they would print no other works than mine,
The task were nobler; but, alas, in vain,
Of audience few and unfit I complain,
Bull wont believe in Southey's verse and mine.
Arouse thee, John, involve in general doom
All who bid Wordsworth rise for Byron to make room.