TO MR. THOMSON.
[In the double service of poesy and music the poet had to sing of pangs which he never endured, from beauties to whom he had never spoken.]
Forlorn my love, no comfort near, &c.[284]
How do you like the foregoing? I have written it within this hour: so much for the speed of my Pegasus; but what say you to his bottom?
R. B.