Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/239



days for answer I have waited, I thought an ace you'd ne'er have bated, And art thou forc'd to yield, ill fated poetaster? Henceforth acknowledge, that a nose Of thy dimension's fit for prose, But every one that knows Dan, knows thy master. Blush for ill spelling, for ill lines, And fly with hurry to ramines; Thy fame, thy genius now declines, proud boaster. I hear with some concern you roar, And flying think to quit the score, By clapping billets on your door and posts, sir. Thy ruin, Tom, I never meant, I'm griev'd to hear your banishment, But pleas'd to find you do relent and cry on. I maul'd you, when you look'd so bluff, But now I'll secret keep your stuff; For know, prostration is enough to th' lion. Rh