CCCXVI. To Mr. Thomson

[In the double service of poesy and music the poet had to sing of pangs which he never endured, from beauties to whom he had never spoken.]

Forlorn my love, no comfort near, &c.

How do you like the foregoing? I have written it within this hour: so much for the speed of my Pegasus; but what say you to his bottom?

R. B.