a parody on the song of Ariel would please them better.

Full fathom five the Atheist lies,
Of his bones are hell-dice made.--

I want time, or fancy, to fill up the rest. I sincerely sympathise with
you on your doleful confinement. Of Time, Health, and Riches, the first
in order is not last in excellence. Riches are chiefly good, because
they give us Time. What a weight of wearisome prison hours have [I] to
look back and forward to, as quite cut out [of] life--and the sting of
the thing is, that for six hours every day I have no business which I
could not contract into two, if they would let me work Task-work. I
shall be glad to hear that your grievance is mitigated.

Shelly I saw once. His voice was the most obnoxious squeak I ever was
tormented with, ten thousand times worse than the Laureat's, whose voice
is the worst part about him, except his Laureatcy. Lord Byron opens upon
him on Monday in a Parody (I suppose) of the "Vision of Judgment," in
which latter the Poet I think did not much show _his_. To award his
Heaven and his Hell in the presumptuous manner he has done, was a piece
of immodesty as bad as Shelleyism.

I am returning a poor letter. I was formerly a great Scribbler in that
way, but my hand is out of order. If I said my head too, I should not be
very much out, but I will tell no tales of myself. I will therefore end
(after my best thanks, with a hope to see you again some time in
London), begging you to accept this Letteret for a Letter--a Leveret
makes a better present than a grown hare, and short troubles (as the old
excuse goes) are best.