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  • For poetry, he's past his prime,
    He takes an hour to find a rhyme;
    His fire is out, his wit decayed,
    His fancy sunk, his muse a jade.
    I'd have him throw away his pen,
    But there's no talking to some men.

    Matthew Prior, Jonathan Swift (1853). “Select poems of Prior and Swift [ed. by C. Bathurst].”, p.155