Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/400

358 And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow

No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre,

That whetstone of the teeth—Monotony in wire!

XXXIX.

Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 'twas his

In life and death to be the mark where Wrong

Aimed with her poisoned arrows,—but to miss.

Oh, Victor unsurpassed in modern song!