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and my epic brethren gone before,

      And here the advantage is my own, I ween

      (Not that I have not several merits more,

      But this will more peculiarly be seen);

      They so embellish, that 't is quite a bore

      Their labyrinth of fables to thread through,

      Whereas this story 's actually true.

      If any person doubt it, I appeal

      To history, tradition, and to facts,

      To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel,

      To plays in five, and operas in three acts;

      All these confirm my statement a good deal,

      But that which more completely faith exacts

      Is that myself, and several now in Seville,

      Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil.

      If ever I should condescend to prose,

      I 'll write poetical commandments, which

      Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those

      That went before; in these I shall enrich

      My text with many things that no one knows,

      And carry precept to the highest pitch:

      I 'll call the work 'Longinus o'er a Bottle,

      Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle.'

      Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope;

      Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey;

      Because the first is crazed beyond all hope,

      The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy:

      With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope,

      And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy:

      Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor

      Commit—flirtation with the muse of Moore.

      Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse,

      His Pegasus, nor anything that 's his;

      Thou shalt not bear false witness like 'the Blues'

      (There 's one, at least, is very fond of this);

      Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose:

      This is true criticism, and you may kiss—

      Exactly as you please, or not,—the rod;

      If any person should presume to assert

      This story is not moral, first, I pray,

      That they will not cry out before they 're hurt,

      Then that they 'll read it o'er again, and say

      (But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert)

      That this is not a moral tale, though gay;

      Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show

      The very place where wicked people go.

      If, after all, there should be some so blind

      To their own good this warning to despise,

      Led by some tortuosity of mind,

      Not to believe my verse and their own eyes,

      And cry that they 'the moral cannot find,'

      I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies;

      Should captains the remark, or critics, make,

      They also lie too—under a mistake.

      The public approbation I expect,

      And beg they 'll take my word about the moral,

      Which I with their amusement will connect

      (So children cutting teeth receive a coral);

      Meantime, they 'll doubtless please to recollect

      My epical pretensions to the laurel:

      For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish,

      I 've bribed my grandmother's review—the British.

      I sent it in a letter to the Editor,

      Who thank'd me duly by return of post—

      I 'm for a handsome article his creditor;

      Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast,

      And break a promise after having made it her,

      Denying the receipt of what it cost,

      And smear his page with gall instead of honey,

      All I can say is—that he had the money.

      I think that with this holy new alliance

      I may ensure the public, and defy

      All other magazines of art or science,

      Daily, or monthly, or three monthly; I

      Have not essay'd to multiply their clients,

      Because they tell me 't were in vain to try,

      And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly

      Treat a dissenting author very martyrly.

      'Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventa

      Consule Planco,' Horace said, and so

      Say I; by which quotation there is meant a

      Hint that some six or seven good years ago

      (Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta)

      I was most ready to return a blow,

      And would not brook at all this sort of thing

      In my hot youth—when George the Third was King.

      But now at thirty years my hair is grey

      (I wonder what it will be like at forty?

      I thought of a peruke the other day)—

      My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I

      Have squander'd my whole summer while 't was May,

      And feel no more the spirit to retort; I

      Have spent my life, both interest and principal,

      And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible.

      No more—no more—Oh! never more on me

      The freshness of the heart can fall like dew,

      Which out of all the lovely things we see

      Extracts emotions beautiful and new,

      Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee:

      Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew?

      Alas! 't was not in them, but in thy power

      To double even the sweetness of a flower.

      No more—no more—Oh! never more, my heart,

      Canst thou be my sole world, my universe!

      Once all in all, but now a thing apart,

      Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse:

      The illusion 's gone for ever, and thou art

      Insensible, I trust, but none the worse,

      And in thy stead I 've got a deal of judgment,

      Though

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