Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/486

444 Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hate,

Some folly crossed, some jest, or some debate;

Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon

The gathered gall is voided in Lampoon.

Perhaps at some pert speech you've dared to frown,

Perhaps your Poem may have pleased the Town:

If so, alas! 'tis nature in the man—

May Heaven forgive you, for he never can!

Then be it so; and may his withering Bays

Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise

While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink

The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink,

But springing upwards from the sluggish mould,

Be (what they never were before) be—sold!

Should some rich Bard (but such a monster now,

In modern Physics, we can scarce allow),

Should some pretending scribbler of the Court,

Some rhyming Peer—there's plenty of the sort—