Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/401

Rh When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall

Employs a pen less pointed than his awl,

Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes,

St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the Muse,

Heavens! how the vulgar stare! how crowds applaud!

How ladies read, and Literati laud!

If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest,

'Tis sheer ill-nature—don't the world know best?

Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme,

And declares 'tis quite sublime.