THE POET SEEKETH THE READER'S FORBEARANCE.
Delitigate me not, O reader mine,
If here you find not all like flies succinous;
My hand is porrect—kindly take't in thine,
While modestly my caput is declinous;
Nor think that I sugescent motives have,
In asking thee to read my chevisance.
I weet it is depectible—but do not rave,
Nor despumate on me with look askance.
Existimation greatly I desire;
'Tis so expetible I have sad fears
That, excandescent, you will not esquire
My meaning; see, I madefy my cheek with tears,
On my bent knees implore forbearance kind;
Be not retose in haught; I know 'tis sad,
But get your Webster down, and you will find
That he's to blame, not I—so don't get mad!