TO MY FRIEND THE AUTHOR UPON THESE HIS POEMS.
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.