Sir,
In that small inch of time I stole, to look
On th' obscure depths of your mysterious book,
(Heav'n bless my eyesight!) what strains did I see!
What steropegeretic Poetry!
What hieroglyphic words, what [riddles] all,
In letters more than cabalistical!
We with our fingers may your verses scan,
But all our noddles understand them can
No more, than read that dungfork, pothook hand