Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/619

ECL. I.] Her life is as good as your own, I will bet.

Nothing more than the heart of her daughter and hand.

My talent is decent, as far as it goes;

But in rhyme

For the heart of the fair like a stanza or two;

And so, as I can't, will you furnish a few?

To slip into her hand at the very next rout.

Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's eye,

So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme

What I've told her in prose, at the least, as sublime?

Stick to prose—As sublime!!—but I wish you good day.

I own it; but, prithee, compose me the song.

Can I say to you more?

You disparage my parts with insidious abuse,

Till you think you can turn them best to your own use.