Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/490

448 All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues

As yawning waiters fly Fitzscribble's lungs;

Yet on he mouths—ten minutes—tedious each

As Prelate's homily, or placeman's speech;

Long as the last years of a lingering lease,

When Riot pauses until Rents increase.

While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays

O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways,

If by some chance he walks into a well,

And shouts for succour with stentorian yell,

"A rope! help, Christians, as ye hope for grace!"

Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace;

For there his carcass he might freely fling,

From frenzy, or the humour of the thing.

Though this has happened to more Bards than one;

I'll tell you Budgell's story,—and have done.

Budgell, a rogue and rhymester, for no good,

(Unless his case be much misunderstood)