Poems By Mr. Polwhele. In three volumes |
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And as that taste to nice precision wrought
Contemns the tricks of rhetoric, O beware,
Left in the fervor of thy kindled soul
Thou catch the imperfect word, the flippant strain,
Alas, too current with the conscript tribe;
Who oft the vulgar proverb seize, or coin
The uncouth expression. Hence new syllables
Slide off into the language, and corrupt
By vicious sounds its purity. Despise
Each low attempt at wit; nor intermix,
With legislative science, scripture-shreds.
119
Left in the fervor of thy kindled soul
Thou catch the imperfect word, the flippant strain,
Alas, too current with the conscript tribe;
Who oft the vulgar proverb seize, or coin
The uncouth expression. Hence new syllables
Slide off into the language, and corrupt
By vicious sounds its purity. Despise
Each low attempt at wit; nor intermix,
With legislative science, scripture-shreds.
![]() | Poems | ![]() |