Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/344

302 A mind well skilled to find, or forge a fault;

A turn for punning—call it Attic salt;

To go, be silent and discreet,

His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:

Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit;

Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit;

Care not for feeling—pass your proper jest,

And stand a Critic, hated yet caressed.

And shall we own such judgment? no—as soon

Seek roses in December—ice in June;

Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,

Believe a woman or an epitaph,

Or any other thing that's false, before

You trust in Critics, who themselves are sore;

Or yield one single thought to be misled

By 's heart, or 's Bœotian head.