LXXI

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LXXI

This, as a falsehood, Crafticanto treats;

And as his style is of strange elegance,

Gentle and tender, full of soft conceits,

(Much like our Boswell’s,) we will take a glance

At his sweet prose, and, if we can, make dance

His woven periods into careless rhyme;

O, little faery Pegasus! rear⁠—prance⁠—

Trot round the quarto⁠—ordinary time!

March, little Pegasus, with pawing hoof sublime!