I call'd it once my sloth: in such an age
So many volumes deep, I not a page?
But I recant, and vow 'twas thrifty care
That kept my pen from spending on slight ware,
And breath'd it for a prize, whose pow'rful shine
Doth both reward the striver, and refine.
Such are thy poems, friend: for since th' hast writ,
I can't reply to any name, but wit;
And lest amidst the throng that make us groan,
Mine prove a groundless heresy alone,
Thus I dispute, Hath there not rev'rence been
Paid to the beard at door, for Lord within?
Who notes the spindle-leg or hollow eye
Of the thin usher, the fair lady by?
Thus I sin freely, neighbour to a hand
Which, while I aim to strengthen, gives command
For my protection; and thou art to me
At once my subject and security.
I. Rowlandson, Oxoniensis.