I OWN I like not Johnson’s turgid style,

That gives an inch th’ importance of a mile;

Casts of manure a wagon-load around,

To raise a simple daisy from the ground;

Uplifts the club of Hercules—for what?

To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat;

Creates a whirlwind from the earth, to draw

Sets wheels on wheels in motion—such a clatter—

To force up one poor nipperkin of water;

Bids ocean labour with tremendous roar

To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore;

Alike in every theme his pompous art,

Heaven’s awful thunder or a rumbling cart!