I leave it to yoursel’s to mend,
That chance the peur man need again;
If it be ill penn’d it is well kend,
I got as little for my ‘pain.’
STANZAS,
Addressed to Northumbria.
Old Janus advances all cloathed in white,
And his long-smother’d tempests sends forth;
On the mountains cold bosom, as black as the night,
Sinks the dark rolling clouds of the north.