When the divine inspires,
brings forth genius with ease
in art light unquenchable fires
that a man has the ability to please
and uniquely unquestionable rise
does he then stand totally alone
among people spreading lies
with all compatriot friends gone?
Does his fellow contemporary poets then leer
and from jealousy hint at faults and in this way strike
acting as if still dear, but teaching others to sneer
as if without any dislike,
playing a deceitful game, as if not having any part
but slowly and surely besieging him and his art?
[Reference: On Addison by Alexander Pope.]
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