Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/476

434 Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil,

None reach expertness without years of toil;

But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease,

Tag twenty thousand couplets, when they please.

Why not?—shall I, thus qualified to sit

For rotten boroughs, never show my wit?

Shall I, whose fathers with the "Quorum" sate,

And lived in freedom on a fair estate;

Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs,

To all their income, and to—twice its tax;

Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault,

Shall I, I say, suppress my Attic Salt?

Thus think "the Mob of Gentlemen:" but you,

Besides all this, must have some Genius too.

Be this your sober judgment, and a rule,

And print not piping hot from Southey's school,

Who (ere another Thálaba appears),

I trust, will spare us for at least nine years,