What though the chilly wide-mouth'd quacking chorus From the rank swamps of murk Review-land croak: So was it, neighbour, in the times before us, When Momus, throwing on his Attic cloak, Romped with the Graces; and each tickled Muse (That Turk, Dan Phoebus, whom bards call divine, Was married to -- at least, he kept -- all nine) Fled, but still with reverted faces ran; Yet, somewhat the broad freedoms to excuse, They had allur'd the audacious Greek to use, Swore they mistook him for their own good man. This Momus -- Aristophanes on earth Men called him -- maugre all his wit and worth Was croaked and gabbled at. How, then, should you, Or I, friend, hope to 'scape the skulking crew? No! laugh, and say aloud, in tones of glee, 'I hate the quacking tribe, and they hate me!' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SEA DIALOGUE by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES NEURASTENIA by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS by LUCY AIKEN JAY A-PASS'D by WILLIAM BARNES PORTRAIT IN THE HORIZONTAL by RUTH FITCH BARTLETT THE DRUG-SHOP, OR, ENDYMION IN EDMONSTOUN by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET |