Weave I this little wreath of flowers.
You have, I know, a “myriad mind,”
A “honey tongue” to tell a story;
You left poor “panting Time” behind,
(See Johnson) in the race for glory—
’Tis true. But when all’s said and done,
With thought and rhetoric impassioned,
You’ve been, and are, a Friend to one
Whose mind is not supremely fashioned.