Dear Sir, since you in humble wise Have made a recantation, From your low bended knees arise; I hate such poor prostration. 'Tis bravery that moves the brave, As one nail drives another; If you from me would mercy have, Pray, Sir, be such another. You that so long maintained the field With true poetic vigor, Now you lay down your pen and yield; You make a wretched figure. Submit, but do't with sword in hand, And write a panegyric Upon the man you cannot stand; I'll have it writ in lyric: That all the boys I teach may sing The achievements of their Chiron, What conquests my stern looks can bring Without the help of iron. A small goose-quill, yclept a pen, From magazine of standish, Drawn forth's more dreadful to the Dean Than any sword we brandish. My ink's my flesh, my pen's my bolt; When e'er I please to thunder, I'll make you tremble like a colt, And thus I'll keep you under. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ESSAY ON STONE by HAYDEN CARRUTH MOTHERHOOD by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON QUESTION by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON A FLORIDA SUNDAY by SIDNEY LANIER THE AWAKENING RIVER by KATHERINE MANSFIELD |