Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/349

Rh This truth at least let Satire's self allow,

No dearth of Bards can be complained of now.

The loaded Press beneath her labour groans,

And Printers' devils shake their weary bones;

While 's Epics cram the creaking shelves,

And 's Lyrics shine in hot-pressed twelves.

Thus saith the Preacher: "Nought beneath the sun

Is new," yet still from change to change we run.

What varied wonders tempt us as they pass!

The Cow-pox, Tractors, Galvanism, and Gas,