And vice hath left his ugly blot;
And good resolves, a moment hot,
Fairly began—but finished not; 15
And fruitless, late remorse doth trace—
Like Hebrew lore a backward pace—
Her irrecoverable race.
Disjointed numbers; sense unknit;
Huge reams of folly; shreds of wit; 20
Compose the mingled mass of it.
My scalded eyes no longer brook