Nor much of that, though nought grows on it,
I’ll beat my brains to sound her praise,
And hammer them into a sonnet.
And if she deign one charming smile
The blest reward of all my labours,
I’ll never grudge my pains or toil,
But pity the dull squires, my neighbours.
George Ellis.
TO LADY ANNE HAMILTON
TOO late I stayed, forgive the crime,—