ON BURNING A DULL POEM

An ass's hoof alone can hold

That poisonous juice, which kills by cold.

Methought, when I this poem read,

No vessel but an ass's head

Such frigid fustian could contain;

I mean, the head without the brain.

The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts,

Went down like stupifying draughts;

I found my head begin to swim,

A numbness crept through every limb.

In haste, with imprecations dire,

I threw the volume in the fire;

When, ( who could think? ) though cold as ice,

It burnt to ashes in a trice.

How could I more enhance its fame?

Though born in snow, it died in flame.