Wrapt in stole of sable grain,
With Fogs and DULLNESS in my train,
Which damp my voice, and shade my brows,
Behold an Ode — which Genius disavows!
Mark! — 'tis not my last farewell—
Every line in Dunciad's knell!
Fog and gloom shall load my mind,
So oft' by sons of Genius taught
To seek its present weight confin'd,
And to Night's goddess mark the leaden thought!
Odes like mine shall never live!
DULLNESS has no soul, and therefore can't revive.

WHITEHEAD, by George's most indulgent care
Is fix'd the leaden Laureat of the day;
Far from the classick, Heliconian air,
Where Wit and Genius dance the sprightly bay;
Where teeming Genius apes his genial powers;
Where Learning blooms, but not with look severe;
With dull importance big,
With all the majesty of wig,
Who reads by dull compulsion certain hours.
O Parnassus — Aganippe,
Let poor Billy have a sippy,
Let Kitty Clio bring the Bard a cup,
To keep his place — and keep his nonsense up!