Let loftier poets tune their martial lays,
And sing the patriot’s or the hero’s praise;
For casual fare, like hackney-coachmen, ply,
Blame where they can, and, where they cannot,--lie:
Each Pasquin now may lash his empty brother,
Or, like thin spiders, prey upon each other:
Snug in my shell, I shun their watchful fury,
Laugh at them all, and sing the praise of Drury;
My careless Muse now hovers round her walls,
And lifts her dome yet higher than St. Paul’s.