“To meet your wish I fain would write,
But doubtful how to please,
My words are flat, my notions trite,
In short, I’m ill at ease.
“What may be done in such a fix
Your wit alone can tell;
Do you find straw to make the bricks,
Be sure I’ll not rebel.
“I ask not wheat, I won’t take chaff,
Between them lies an art