In Oxford Crouds of stupid Bards are found,
Where of all Places bright ones should abound;
Dull plodding Blockheads, without Sense or Fire,
Toil hard for Fame, and to the Bays aspire:
From deep Logicians shallow Wits commence,
Old Dogs at Rhime, no matter for the Sense;
If the Lines flow but smooth, and jingle well,
The Man's a Poet, and his Verses sell;
Nor is it strange, but rightly weigh the thing,
That our soft Bards so indolently sing,
Or that the Genius of the Place is dead,
When our inspiring Muses breathe in Lead:
High on the stately Dome, with Harp in hand,
Their lumpish Deities exalted stand,
Fix'd as a publick Mark, that all might know,
What wretched heavy Stuff they print below.