Page:The Dunciad - Alexander Pope (1743).djvu/110

Book II. No meagre, muse-rid mope, adust and thin, In a dun night-gown of his own loose skin; But such a bulk as no twelve bards could raise, Twelve starv'ling bards of these degen'rate days. All as a partridge plump, full-fed, and fair, She form'd this image of well-body'd air; With pert flat eyes she window'd well its head; A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead; And empty words she gave, and sounding strain, But senseless, lifeless! idol void and vain! Never was dash'd out, at one lucky hit, A fool, so just a copy of a wit;