IF I forget thee, BL—K—S, or if I say
Ought hurtful, may I never see thee play.
Let critics, with a supercilious air,
Decry thy various merit, and declare,
Frenchman is still at top; — but scorn that rage
Which, in attacking thee, attacks the age.
French follies, universally embrac'd,
At once provoke our mirth, and form our taste.