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And so on through several more pages of infinite contempt, quite justifiable, but scarcely worth the while of so great a thinker and poet to fling at such pigmies.

As for the public which complains that though he brews stiff drink, the deuce a flavour of grape is there, and alleges against him Shakespeare and Milton, whose wines are both strong and sweet, he turns on it with bitter disdain, and reminds it that it drinks only the leakage and leavings of these, sups the single scene, sips the single verse: —

And he concludes his rough rasping with the following stanza:—