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In evil hour did Pope's declining age, Deceived and dazzled by the tinsel show Of wordy science and the nauseous flow Of mean, officious flatteries, engage Thy venal quill to deck his laboured page With ribald nonsense, and permit to strew Amidst his flowers, the baleful weeds that grow In the unblessed soil of rude and rancorous rage. Yet this the avenging muse ordainéd so, When, by his counsel or weak sufferance, To thee were trusted Shakespeare's fame and fate: She doomed him down the stream of time to tow Thy foul, dirt-loaded hulk, or sink perchance, Dragged to oblivion by the foundering weight.