'd, bleeding, tortur'd in th' unequal strife,
the hapless poet flounces on through life,
till, fled each hope that once his bosom fired,
and fled each muse that glorious onspir'd,
low-sunk in squalid, unprotected age,
dead evement for his injur'd page,
he heeds no more the ruthless critics' rage.
so by some hedge the generous steed deceas'd,
for half-starv'd, snarling curs a dainty feast;
by toil and famine worn to skin and bone,
lies, senseless of each tugging bitch's son.
a little upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,
and st
The Poets Progress(4/8)