He, tyed to some poor Spot, where e'en the rill
That owns him Lord untasted steals away,
Hallows a Clod, and spurns Immensity.
Ye gentle, nameless Bards, who float a-down
130
The soft smoothe Stream of silver poesy
And dream your pretty Dreams, permit my Song
Cold inspiration from a Winter's Night.
This is no Stanza'd Birth-Day of his Grace,
Your patron; no sad Satire of the Lord,