"A singer, eh?… Well, well! but when he sings   Take jealous heed lest idiosyncrasies
  Entinge and taint too deep his melodies;
  See that his lute has no discordant strings
  To harrow us; and let his vaporings
  Be all of virtue and its victories,
  And of man's best and noblest qualities,
  And scenery, and flowers, and similar things.
 
  "Thus bid our paymasters whose mutterings
  Some few deride, and blithely link their rhymes
  At random; and, as ever, on frail wings
  Of wine-stained paper scribbled with such rhymes
  Men mount to heaven, and loud laughter springs
  From hell's midpit, whose fuel is such rhymes."