Because, alas! I cannot sell it.

And should you with a critic's eye,
Proclaim me 'gainst the Muse a sinner,
Reflect, dear girl! that such as I,
Six times a week don't get a dinner.

And want of comfort, food, and wine,
Will damp the genius, curb the spirit:
These wants I'll own are often mine;
But can't allow a want of merit.

For every stupid dog that drinks
At poet's pond, nicknam'd divine:
Say what he will, I know he thinks
That all he writes is devilish fine!




_SONNET_.

NIGHT.


Now when dun Night her shadowy veil has spread,
See want and infamy as forth they come,
Lead their wan daughter from her branded home,
To woo the stranger for unhallow'd bread.
Poor outcast! o'er thy sickly-tinted cheek