 | Every Man in his Own Way |  |
'Twere well, my Lælius, if I could pursue,
That prudent Counsel which I had from You:
To quit the Muse before her Spirits sink,
Forsake my Rhymes, and wash my Hands of Ink.
But, spite of all the Precepts You impart,
This Itch of Scribbling clings about my Heart.
'Tis a Disease above the Doctor's Skill,
Too stubborn to be cur'd with Drop or Pill.
That prudent Counsel which I had from You:
To quit the Muse before her Spirits sink,
Forsake my Rhymes, and wash my Hands of Ink.
But, spite of all the Precepts You impart,
This Itch of Scribbling clings about my Heart.
2
Too stubborn to be cur'd with Drop or Pill.
| Every Man in his Own Way | |