Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/464

422 Who soon detect, and mark where'er we fail,

And prove our marble with too nice a nail!

Democritus himself was not so bad;

He only thought—but you would make us—mad!

But truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard

Against that ridicule they deem so hard;

In person negligent, they wear, from sloth,

Beards of a week, and nails of annual growth;

Reside in garrets, fly from those they meet,

And walk in alleys rather than the street.

With little rhyme, less reason, if you please,

The name of Poet may be got with ease,

So that not tuns of helleboric juice

Shall ever turn your head to any use;

Write but like Wordsworth—live beside a lake,

And keep your bushy locks a year from Blake;

Then print your book, once more return to town,

And boys shall hunt your Bardship up and down.