Answer To Some Elegant Verses Sent By A Friend To The Author, Complaining That One Of His Descriptio Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: AABC D EEFGHHIIJJKKLLMMNNOO JJPPQQJJNNRRSSTTMMNN UUVV

But if any old Lady Knight Priest or PhysicianA
Should condemn me for printing a second editionA
If good Madam Squintum my work should abuseB
May I venture to give her a smack of my museC
-
Anstey's 'New Bath Guide' pD
-
-
Candour compels me BECHER to commendE
The verse which blends the censor with the friendE
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applauseF
From me the heedless and imprudent causeG
For this wild error which pervades my strainH
I sue for pardon must I sue in vainH
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways departI
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heartI
Precepts of prudence curb but can't controulJ
The fierce emotions of the flowing soulJ
When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mindK
Limping Decorum lingers far behindK
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish paceL
Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chaseL
The young the old have worn the chains of loveM
Let those they ne'er confined my lay reproveM
Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing powerN
Their censures on the hapless victim showerN
Oh how I hate the nerveless frigid songO
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throngO
Whose labour'd lines in chilling numbers flowJ
To paint a pang the author ne'er can knowJ
The artless Helicon I boast is youthP
My Lyre the Heart my Muse the simple TruthP
Far be't from me the virgin's mind to taintQ
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraintQ
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guileJ
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smileJ
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leerN
Firm in her virtue's strength yet not severeN
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refineR
Will ne'er be tainted by a strain of mineR
But for the nymph whose premature desiresS
Torment her bosom with unholy firesS
No net to snare her willing heart is spreadT
She would have fallen though she ne'er had readT
For me I fain would please the chosen fewM
Whose souls to feeling and to nature trueM
Will spare the childish verse and not destroyN
The light effusions of a heedless boyN
I seek not glory from the senseless crowdU
Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proudU
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prizeV
Their sneers or censures I alike despiseV

George Gordon Lord Byron



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