But now I mean to wring the bays
From critics hard as pebbles.
I on my Peer’s soft cushion fret,
Because my life seems fallow,
But ah! the “glowing Muse” shall yet
Show me less sour and sallow.
I steal away from Whiggish plots
To Poesy’s green covers,
I try my hand at true-love knots,
I sing for happy lovers.