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Updated: May 1, 2025
Mute the Lavrac and forlorn While she moults those firstling plumes That had skimm'd the tender corn, Or the bean-field's od'rous blooms; Soon with renovating wing, Shall she dare a loftier flight, Upwards to the day-star sing, And embathe in heavenly light. Myrtle Leaf, that, ill besped, Pinest in the gladsome ray, Soiled beneath the common tread, Far from thy protecting spray;
My dearest Cottle, ... 'Ill besped' is indeed a sad blotch; but after having tried at least a hundred ways, before I sent the Poem to you, and often since, I find it incurable. This first Poem is but a so so composition. I wonder I could have been so blinded by the ardour of recent composition, as to see anything in it.
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