Pardon, my Lord, these idle fits of rhyme 120
That flow from too much ease and too much time!
You bade th’ inspiring Days of Gloom depart
And spoiled the poet when you eas’d his heart:
Take then such feeble thanks as he can pay, }
Who feels more grateful as his powers decay, }
And finds the will to sing, but cannot find the way! }
[THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.]
This is my Place of pilgrimage: a Vale
Where piety oft slumbers, while Desire,