Who, like Lamb, too, to no strait bounds confined,
Have room for all fair fancies in your mind,
And, with a taste that never errs, discover
Faults like a censor, beauties like a lover.
Here is another offering for your store,
Though not arrayed in that brown garb of yore
Which, with quaint type and paper stained with age,
Were for the Spirit of our Poet-Sage
A fitter dwelling, more becoming page.
I could not give him these, and so have sought