A generous friendship no cold medium knows, Burns with one love, with one resentment glows.

How loved, how honored once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot A heap of dust alone remains of thee 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Though triumphs were to generals only due, crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too.

Fly, dotard, fly! With thy wise dreams and fables of the sky.

Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.

From the moment one sets up for an author, one must be treated as ceremoniously, that is as unfaithfully, "as a king's favorite or a king.

But Satan now is wiser than of yore, and tempts by making rich, not making poor.