Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/186

176 But search among the rhyming race, The brave are worried by the base. If on Parnassus' top you sit, You rarely bite, are always bit: Each poet of inferiour size On you shall rail and criticise, And strive to tear you limb from limb; While others do as much for him. The vermin only tease and pinch Their foes superiour by an inch. So, naturalists observe, a flea Has smaller fleas that on him prey; And these have smaller still to bite 'em, And so proceed ad infinitum. Thus every poet, in his kind, Is bit by him that comes behind: Who, though too little to be seen, Can tease, and gall, and give the spleen; Call dunces, fools, and sons of whores, Lay Grub street at each other's doors; Extol the Greek and Roman masters, And curse our modern poetasters; Complain, as many an ancient bard did, How genius is no more rewarded; How wrong a taste prevails among us; How much our ancestors outsung us; Can personate an awkward scorn For those who are not poets born; And all their brother dunces lash, Who crowd the press with hourly trash. O Grub street! how do I bemoan thee, Whose graceless children scorn to own thee! Their filial piety forgot, Deny their country, like a Scot; Though,