Tixall Poetry.
37
Letters to Mr Normington.
I.
As fast as pen can fly, or inke can flowe,
No matter verse or prose, in sence or no,
To you thees broken feet are set to goe:
For though I've but a moment more to sit,
And extemporeall thoughts would aske a witt,
Yet I can write without, in spite of it.
My genious in verse of owld you know,—
A spiders weft, though small, yet lesse in show,
Who weake, would rather creepe, then fly too low.
Hence hate I so thos chymik poets' witts,
That forge a goolden verse of copper bitts,
Because tis gilt with shining epithets.
As fast as pen can fly, or inke can flowe,
No matter verse or prose, in sence or no,
To you thees broken feet are set to goe:
For though I've but a moment more to sit,
And extemporeall thoughts would aske a witt,
Yet I can write without, in spite of it.
My genious in verse of owld you know,—
A spiders weft, though small, yet lesse in show,
Who weake, would rather creepe, then fly too low.
Hence hate I so thos chymik poets' witts,
That forge a goolden verse of copper bitts,
Because tis gilt with shining epithets.
