 | Sonnets |  |
14
TO A CERTAIN KNIGHT
They perk you up in scarlet and horsehair,
And let you say your usher-tickling mots,
For joy of which the unhanged prisoner glows,
And counts his life a very small affair.
Then you write verse. Out comes the West minster
(Why it comes out the Lord in Heaven knows),
And in black type on pea-green paper shows
Whose mantle it is that Milton used to wear.
And let you say your usher-tickling mots,
For joy of which the unhanged prisoner glows,
And counts his life a very small affair.
Then you write verse. Out comes the West minster
(Why it comes out the Lord in Heaven knows),
And in black type on pea-green paper shows
Whose mantle it is that Milton used to wear.
We who are Justice to a mightier than the King
Have ‘carefully perused’ your verse, Sir Charles.
And hereby we deliver judgment on it:
A more mechanic, less poetic thing
Was never penned even by Clough or Quarles—
And, Jupiter! what a mess you make of the sonnet!
Have ‘carefully perused’ your verse, Sir Charles.
And hereby we deliver judgment on it:
A more mechanic, less poetic thing
Was never penned even by Clough or Quarles—
And, Jupiter! what a mess you make of the sonnet!
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