To The Author Of A Sonnet, Beginning, ‘

Thy verse is ‘sad’ enough, no doubt: A devilish deal more sad than witty! Why we should weep I can’t find out, Unless for thee we weep in pity. Yet there is one I pity more; And much, alas! I think he needs it; For he, I’m sure, will suffer sore, Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, May once be read – but never after: Yet their effect’s by no means tragic, Although by far too dull for laughter. But would you make our bosoms bleed, And of no common pang complain – If you would make us weep indeed, Tell us, you’ll read them o’er again.