And yet, Giles, methinks he doth mope and grieve these days.

A poet's form she plac'd before their eyes, And bad the nimblest racer seize the prize; No meagre muse-rid mope, adult and thin, In a dun night gown of his own loose skin, But such a bulk as no twelve bards could raise, Twelve starv'ling bards of these degenerate days.