text:  With wealth he was not trusted for heaven knew What 'twas of old to pamper up a Jew; To what would he on quail and pheasant swell That ev'n on tripe and carrion could rebel? But though heaven made him poor with reverence speaking He never was a poet of God's making; The midwife laid her hand on his thick skull With this prophetic blessing--Be thou dull: Drink swear and roar forbear no lewd delight Fit for thy bulk do any thing but write: Thou art of lasting make like thoughtless men A strong nativity--but for the pen! Eat opium mimic arsenic in thy drink Still thou mayst live avoiding pen and ink