Dear Mr. Moore,
No more rhyme for—or rather, from—me. I have taken my leave of that stage and henceforth will mountebank it no longer. I have had my day, and there’s an end. The utmost expect, or even wish, is to have it said in the Biographia Britannica that I might perhaps have been a poet had I gone on and amended. My great comfort is that the temporary celebrity I have wrung from the world has been in the very teeth of all opinions and prejudices. I have flattered no ruling powers; I have never concealed a single thought that tempted me. They can’t say I have truckled to the times, nor to popular topics, (as Johnson, or somebody, said of Cleveland) and whatever I have gained has been at the expenditure of as much personal favor as possible; for I do believe never was a bard more unpopular than myself. And now I have done—“ludite nunc alios.” [Mock others now.] Everybody may be damned, as they seem fond of it, and resolve to stickle lustily for endless brimstone.