 | The Distressed Poet |  |
Reader, no doubt you've sometimes seen
The rapid workings of the Spleen,
When the sharp Bile disturb'd is dropping,
And all Good-humour's vessels stopping,
Curdles “the Milk of Human Kindness,”
Darkens the sight as if with blindness;
Fermenting upwards from the Hip,
Reddens the Eye, and Nose's tip,
And casts such shadow o'er the face,
Its former features scarce you trace;
Just as you may have notic'd, when
Anger distorts a Bantam Hen,
Her Form quite crumpled up together,
Head, Back, and Wing one tuft of Feather.
So, in Vexation's swelling breast,
The throbs of passion were confest,
Whilst she, with looks of scowling pride,
Thus to the God of Verse reply'd.
The rapid workings of the Spleen,
When the sharp Bile disturb'd is dropping,
And all Good-humour's vessels stopping,
Curdles “the Milk of Human Kindness,”
Darkens the sight as if with blindness;
Fermenting upwards from the Hip,
Reddens the Eye, and Nose's tip,
And casts such shadow o'er the face,
Its former features scarce you trace;
Just as you may have notic'd, when
Anger distorts a Bantam Hen,
Her Form quite crumpled up together,
Head, Back, and Wing one tuft of Feather.
67
The throbs of passion were confest,
Whilst she, with looks of scowling pride,
Thus to the God of Verse reply'd.
| The Distressed Poet | |