When SATIRE stoops, unmindful of her state,
To praise the man I love, curse him I hate;
When SENSE, in tides of passion borne along,
Sinking to prose, degrades the name of song;
The Censor smiles, and, whilst my credit bleeds,
With as high relish on the carrion feeds
As the  EARL fed at a Turtle feast,
Who, turn'd by gluttony to worse than beast,
Eat, 'till his bowels gush'd upon the floor,
Yet still eat on, and dying call'd for more.