Page:The Poetical Works of Thomas Parnell (1833).djvu/212

84 He turns, he doubles, there he past, And here we have him, caught at last.

Insatiate brute, whose teeth abuse The sweetest servants of the Muse— Nay, never offer to deny, I took thee in the fact to fly. His roses nipt in every page, My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage; By thee my Ovid wounded lies; By thee my Lesbia's Sparrow dies; Thy rabid teeth have half destroyed The work of love in Biddy Floyd; They rent Belinda's locks away, And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay. For all, for every single deed, Relentless justice bids thee bleed: Then fall a victim to the Nine, Myself the priest, my desk the shrine.

Bring Homer, Virgil, Tasso near, To pile a sacred altar here: Hold, boy, thy hand out-runs thy wit, You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ; You reach'd me Philips' rustic strain; Pray take your mortal bards again.

Come, bind the victim,—there he lies, And here between his numerous eyes