Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/188

178 But ah! how unsecure thy throne! A thousand bards thy right disown: They plot to turn, in factious zeal, Duncenia to a common weal; And with rebellious arms pretend An equal privilege to descend. In bulk there are not more degrees From elephants to mites in cheese, Than what a curious eye may trace In creatures of the rhyming race. From bad to worse, and worse they fall; But who can reach the worst of all? For though, in nature, depth and height Are equally held infinite: In poetry, the height we know.; 'Tis only infinite below. For instance: when you rashly think, No rhymer can like Welsted sink, His merits balanc'd, you shall find The laureate leaves him far behind. Concannen, more aspiring bard. Soars downward deeper by a yard. Smart Jemmy Moore with vigour drops; The rest pursue as thick as hops: With