Blank is the verse that thou indit’st,
Thy play is damn’d, yet still thou writ’st,
My Godwin!
And still to wield the grey goose quill,
When Phœbus sinks, to feel no chill,
“With me is to be lovely still,”
My Godwin!
Thy winged steed (a bit of blood)
Bore thee like Trunnion through the flood,
To leave thee sprawling in the mud,