Verse without rhyme I never could endure,
Uncouth in numbers, and in sense obscure.
To him as Nature, when he ceas'd to see,
Milton's an universal Blank to me.
Confirm'd and settled by the Nations voice,
Rhyme is the poet's pride, and peoples choice.
Always upheld by national Support,
Of Market, University, and Court:
Thompson, write blank; but know that for that reason,
These lines shall live, when thine are out of season.