Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/489

Rh And, after fruitless efforts, you return

Without amendment, and he answers, "Burn!"

That instant throw your paper in the fire,

Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire;

But (if true Bard!) you scorn to condescend,

And will not alter what you can't defend,

If you will breed this Bastard of your Brains,

We'll have no words—I've only lost my pains.

Yet, if you only prize your favourite thought,

As critics kindly do, and authors ought;

If your cool friend annoy you now and then,

And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen;

No matter, throw your ornaments aside,—

Better let him than all the world deride.

Give light to passages too much in shade,

Nor let a doubt obscure one verse you've made;

Your friend's a "Johnson," not to leave one word,

However trifling, which may seem absurd;

Such erring trifles lead to serious ills,

And furnish food for critics, or their quills.

As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tune,

Or the sad influence of the angry Moon,