University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
Some frantic Poets leave no gap untried,
Whose genius scorns to take a Pope for guide;
If blunt conceit can frame supplanting schools,
Why care, though genuine taste denounce them fools?
Some ever climb the clouds,—some creep in caves,
Some sing of balls, while others groan to graves;—

134

Wild, prurient, turgid, scanty or diffuse,
Through all the gambols of a jadish muse;
Cold artifice for Nature's fresher powers,
They flounce o'er weeds, and dream them beds of flowers!
 
“Nil intentatum nostri liquêre poëtæ.”

Hor.