O ——! O ——! of you we complain
For exposing those ears to the wind and the rain.
Thy face, a huge whitlow just come to a head,
Ill agrees with those ears so raw and so red.

A Musical Critic of old fell a-pouting
When he saw how his asinine honours were sprouting;
But he hid 'em quite snug, in a full friz of hair,
And the Barber alone smoked his donkeys [so] rare.

Thy judgment much worse, and thy perkers as ample,
O give heed to King Midas, and take his example.
Thus to publish your fate is as useless as wrong—
You but prove by your ears, what we guessed from your tongue.