FRIEND, I must grieve your poems injur'd be By that rare vice in poets, modesty. If you dislike the issues of your pen, You have invention, but no judgment then. You able are to write, but'tis as true, Those that were there can judge as well as you. You only think your gold adulterate, When every scale of judgment finds it weight, And every touchstone perfect. This I'll say, You contradict the name of your own play. You are no lover of the lines you writ, Yet you are jealous still of your own wit. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CRY OF THE HUMAN by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING IN THE GOLD ROOM by OSCAR WILDE EPIGRAM: A WALK IN SURREY by G. N. CLARK POSTHUMOUS TALES: TALE 2. THE FAMILY OF LOVE by GEORGE CRABBE TO DIE, AND BE FORGOTTEN by MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON I MET AT EVE by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE |