" This day the powder'd curls and golden
i- ' coat,
Says swelling Crispin, " begg'd a cobbler's
"This night our Wit," the pert apprentice cries, " Lies at my feet ; I hiss him, and he dies." The great, 'tis true, can charm the electing
The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. Yet, judged by those whose voices ne'er were
He feels no want of ill-persuading gold ; But, confident of praise, if praise be due, Trusts without fear to merit and to you.