When Thurlow this damn'd 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.

More verses by George Gordon Byron

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