William Cowper

There is a pleasure in poetic pains,
Which only poets know.

There is a pleasure in poetic pains,
Which only poets know.

He stands erect; his slouch becomes a walk;
He steps right onward, martial in his air,
His read more

He stands erect; his slouch becomes a walk;
He steps right onward, martial in his air,
His form and movement.

His head,
Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er,
Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth,
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His head,
Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er,
Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth,
But strong for service still, and unimpair'd.

Habits of close attention, thinking heads,
Become more rare as dissipation spreads,
Till authors hear at length read more

Habits of close attention, thinking heads,
Become more rare as dissipation spreads,
Till authors hear at length one general cry
Tickle and entertain us, or we die!

And spare the poet for his subject's sake.

And spare the poet for his subject's sake.