'Tis mine to waste on love my time, Or vent my reveries in rhyme, Without the aid of Reason; For Sense and Reason (critics know it) Have quitted every amorous Poet, Nor left a thought to seize on. 8. Poor LITTLE! sweet, melodious bard! Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard That he, who sang before all; He who the lore of love expanded, By dire Reviewers should be branded, As void of wit and moral. [1] 9. And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, Harmonious favourite of the Nine! Repine not at thy lot. Thy soothing lays may still be read, When Persecution's arm is dead, And critics are forgot. 10. Still I must yield those worthies merit Who chasten, with unsparing spirit, Bad rhymes, and those who write them: And though myself may be the next By critic sarcasm to be vext, I really will not fight them. [2] 11. Perhaps they would do quite as well To break the rudely sounding shell Of such a young beginner: He who offends at pert nineteen, Ere thirty may become, I ween, A very harden'd sinner. 12. Now, Clare, I must return to you; [ii] And, sure, apologies are due: Accept, then, my concession. In truth, dear Clare, in Fancy's flight [iii] I soar along from left to right; My Muse admires digression. 13. I think I said 'twould be your fate To add one star to royal state;-- May regal smiles attend you! And should a noble Monarch reign, You will not seek his smiles in vain, If worth can recommend you. 14. Yet since in danger courts abound, Where specious rivals glitter round, From snares may Saints preserve you; And grant your love or friendship ne'er From any claim a kindred care, But those who best deserve you! 15. Not for a moment may you stray From Truth's secure, unerring way! May no delights decoy! O'er roses may your footsteps move, Your smiles be ever smiles of love, Your tears be tears of joy! 16. Oh! if you wish that happiness Your coming days and years may bless, And virtues crown your brow; Be still as you were wont to be, Spotless as you've been known to me,-- Be still as you are now. [3] 17. And though some trifling share of praise, To cheer my last declining days, To me were doubly dear; Whilst blessing your beloved name, I'd _waive_ at once a _Poet's_ fame, To _prove_ a _Prophet_ here. 1807. [Footnote 1: These stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a severe critique in a northern review, on a new publication of the British Anacreon. (Byron refers to the article in the 'Edinburgh Review', of July, 1807, on "'Epistles, Odes, and other Poems', by Thomas Little, Esq.")]