And rather than my inward meaning wrong,
Or my full-shining notion trimly skant,
I'll conjure up old words out of their grave.
Or call fresh foreign force in, if need crave;
And these attending on my moving mind,
Shall duly usher in the fitting sense.
And then looking on to the warm season which is to succeed the winter of the world, and at the same time anticipating Baron Munchausen's idea, he says,
My words into this frozen air I throw,
Will then grow vocal at that general thaw.
The following extract is the best specimen that can be given of the strain of feeling, which Henry More could express in no better language than an inharmonious imitation of Spenser's, barbarized by the extremes of carelessness the most licentious, and erudition the most pedantic.
