I'll write invectives: no! I'll only try
What virtue dwells in slighting poesie.'
To his Bellama slighting him.
I'll bore the heavens, pierce the clouds a vein,
Make them full torrents weep of brackish rain,
To second my laments; methinks the sun,
Knowing my clue is ravelled and undone,
That my Bellama slights, should, vexed, resign
T' his sister's chariot his ecliptic line.
1820Bid Phoebe run horn-mad, and loudly cry,