ABSTRACT
High on a gorgeous seat, that far outshone Henley's gilt Tub, or Fleckno's Irish Throne, Or that, where on her Curlls, the Public pours All-bounteous, fragrant grains, and golden show'rs; Great Tibbald sate: The proud Parnassian sneer, 5
The conscious simper, and the jealous leer, Mix on his look. All eyes direct their rays On him, and crowds grow foolish as they gaze. Not with more glee, by hands Pontific crown'd, With scarlet hats, wide waving, circled round, 10 Rome in her Capitol saw Querno sit, Thron'd on sev'n hills, the Antichrist of Wit.
