温柔的鲍勃，我并不是要剥夺你与生俱来的权利，——因为你是唯一的继承人，是亲爱的马特·普赖尔那轻松的歌曲的唯一继承人;我这样把我的陈腐的感情编织在一起，也不是为了显示我的天才或才智，而上帝和你都知道我两样都没有，或者，如果不去写诗，更能显示我的天才或才智。我想对缪斯说的话，并不是用这两种观点中的任何一种，而是要引开一个凶狠的强盗，(一切诙谐的东西都是他的死对头)，他驾着一列地狱般的黑色火车，残酷地侵入我的脑子，天天威胁要把我那小小的理智的守军从那里赶出去;我所说的凶狠的强盗，是由脾气引起的阴郁的思想。那么还有另外一个理由，那就是，我一收到你的信，我就可以公平地偿还我应得的债务;我的密友，如果用别的钱来偿还，你可能会抱怨;因为上帝知道，二十页铅(我想说二十页散文)的价值还不及一页金子的一半，而你的就是这样。这些准备工作就这样办好了，我发现自己相当紧张;我看不见，虽然很少有人比我看得更清楚，我将如何写出一封信。首先是一个想法——既然大家都同意——一个想法——我想到了——让我想想——它又消失了——见鬼去吧!我以为我有——但我没有。格顿夫人和她的儿子霍奇那有用的东西，她的针，不见了，把煤渣耙好，扫地，把门后的灰尘筛掉; While eager Hodge beholds the prize In old grimalkin's glaring eyes; And Gammar finds it on her knees In every shining straw she sees. This simile were apt enough, But I've another, critic-proof. The virtuoso thus at noon, Broiling beneath a July sun, The gilded butterfly pursues O'er hedge and ditch, through gaps and mews, And after many a vain essay To captivate the tempting prey, Gives him at length the lucky pat, And has him safe beneath his hat: Then lifts it gently from the ground, But ah! 'tis lost as soon as found; Culprit his liberty regains; Flits out of sight and mocks his pains. The sense was dark, 'twas therefore (--?) With simile to illustrate it; But as too much obscures the sight, As often as too little light, We have our similes cut short, For matters of more grave import. That Matthew's numbers run with ease Each man of common sense agrees; All men of common sense allow, That Robert's lines are easy too; Where then the preference shall we place, Or how do justice in this case? Matthew (says Fame) with endless pains Smoothed and refined the meanest strains, Nor suffered one ill-chosen rhyme To escape him at the idlest time; And thus o'er all a lustre cast, That while the language lives shall last. An't please your ladyship, (quoth I, For 'tis my business to reply); Sure so much labour, so much toil, Bespeak at least a stubborn soil. Theirs be the laurel-wreath decreed, Who both write well and write full speed; Who throw their Helicon about As freely as a conduit spout. Friend Robert, thus like chien scavant, Lets fall a poem en passant, Nor needs his genuine ore refine; 'Tis ready polished from the mine.