When Thurlow this damned nonsense sent,
(I hope I am not violent)
Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.
And since not even our Rogers’ praise
To common sense his thoughts could raise—
Why would they let him print his lays?
To me, divine Apollo, grant—O!
Hermilda’s first and second canto,
I’m fitting up a new portmanteau;
And thus to furnish decent lining,
My own and others’ bays I’m twining,—
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.
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