If to such glorious height, he lifts his eyes.
But lo! no _common_ orator can hope
The envied silver cup within his scope;
Not that our _heads_ much eloquence require,
The ATHENIAN's glowing style, or TULLY's fire.
The _manner_ of the speech is nothing, since
We do not try by _speaking_ to _convince_;
Be other _orators_ of pleasing _proud_,
We speak to _please_ ourselves, not _move_ the crowd.
Our gravity prefers the _muttering_ tone,
A proper mixture of the _squeak and groan_;
No borrow'd _grace_ of _action_, must be seen,
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,