Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/342

300 More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe, And shrink from Ridicule, though not from Law.

Such is the force of Wit! but not belong To me the arrows of satiric song; The royal vices of our age demand A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, And yield at least amusement in the race: Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame, The cry is up, and scribblers are my game: Speed, Pegasus!—ye strains of great and small, Ode! Epic! Elegy!—have at you all! I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time I poured along the town a flood of rhyme, A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame; I printed—older children do the same. 'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; A Book's a Book, altho' there's nothing in't. Not that a Title's sounding charm can save Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave: This must own, since his patrician name