R.I am sorry, sir,
’Tis no such lofty matter. A letter it is
Sealed and addressed, which takes our friend away.
But I can say with truth, I’d rate myself
The happiest man in the world, could I believe
That what I hold was fashioned ever so little
In your romantic vein.
N.You make me proud, sir.
Yet, you should know, I do not think my poems
As good as others think them: they are but trifles.