Loving perhaps too much thy tenderer, truer side
I to my inward passion have at length complied,
Lest in the smothering of it, I to myself had lied.
Crudely and roughly shaken from Euterpe’s sieve
These frail halting stanzas now to thy care I give,
Feeling that every letter by thee wast made to live.
Scorn not then this limping, poor, procession
Of rhythmic lines; nor treat with proud aggression
These faulty verses; waiting at thy session
For tempered judgment; merciful then be