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 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
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TO THE REVIEWERS:
A CENTO, FROM THE WORKS OF SHAKESPEAR
Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,My very noble and approv'd good masters,
With all my love I do commend me to you:
And now, good friends, when you shall judgment join
In censure of my seeming, I beseech you,
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor aught set down in malice. Note you this:
Time has not sow'd a grizzle on my face:
The golden mark I seek to hit, is not
To look quite through the deeds of men, and shew
The very age and body of the time
Its form and pressure. With a simple wreath,
Cull'd from the book and volume of my brain,
I come before you. Yet alas! methinks
I hear a voice cry: “horrible! most horrible!
Ye Gods! how vilely does this cynic rhyme!
Oh! he's as tedious as a twice-told tale,
Worse than the forc'd gait of a shuffling nag!”
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With your displeasure piec'd, my good intent
May carry through itself: no levell'd malice
Infects one comma in the course I hold.
Under your good correction, if I speed,
And my invention thrive, then will I say,
Your love deserves my thanks: so farewell, gentlemen.
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |