Our gravity prefers the muttering tone,

A proper mixture of the squeak and groan;

No borrow'd grace of action, must be seen,

[pg 27]

The slightest motion would displease the dean.

Whilst every staring graduate would prate,

Against what, he could never imitate.

The man, who hopes t' obtain the promis'd cup,

Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up,

Nor stop, but rattle over every word,

No matter what, so it can not be heard;

Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest,

Who speaks the fastest, 's sure to speak the best;

Who utters most within the shortest space,

May safely hope to win the wordy race.

The sons of Science these, who thus repaid,

Linger in ease, in Granta's sluggish shade;

Where on Cam's sedgy banks supine they lie,

Unknown, unhonour'd live, unwept for, die.

Dull as the pictures, which adorn their halls,

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