1. I composed yet hoped not for prizes fair,
But mine in verse a victor's wreath shall wear.

2. No flattering bard am I, no fawning slave,
But only railer and iconoclast brave.

3. By life! in me poetry's instinctive fire,
Not artifice wrought for a wage, as poet's hire.

4. The charms of damsels have I loved, refined;
The bosoms of crones I have left behind.

5. I view in verse fair gardens, fruits that wreathe;
Others but sandy wastes and deserts seethe.

6. I'll rise in verse's field the conquering knight
Who charges, while no comrade dares the fight.