 | Rogero-Mastir |  |
What drew thee, William, to this Rhiming fit,
Having no more propensity to it?
Could'st think such hobling and unequal Rhimes,
That make a Jangling, like disorder'd Chimes,
Could of a Poem e'er deserve the Name,
Or e'er be read without the Author's Shame?
What Clouds of Darkness in thy Lines appear!
How is thy Stile perplext! how far from clear!
Thy Muse is wrapt in thickest Fogs of Night,
Which shews thou art departed from the Light.
Nor Sun, nor Moon, nor Star throughout thy Book
Is to be seen. No Spring nor Christal Brook
Glides through thy Margin. No, thy Waters run
Black, like the Streams of Styx, or Phlegeton.
Having no more propensity to it?
Could'st think such hobling and unequal Rhimes,
That make a Jangling, like disorder'd Chimes,
Could of a Poem e'er deserve the Name,
Or e'er be read without the Author's Shame?
What Clouds of Darkness in thy Lines appear!
How is thy Stile perplext! how far from clear!
Thy Muse is wrapt in thickest Fogs of Night,
Which shews thou art departed from the Light.
Nor Sun, nor Moon, nor Star throughout thy Book
Is to be seen. No Spring nor Christal Brook
Glides through thy Margin. No, thy Waters run
Black, like the Streams of Styx, or Phlegeton.
| Rogero-Mastir | |