I swear that this town (by the gods up above)
For all of its poets, it doesn’t have love
I vow that I’ll leave it when boat it comes in
Sail south with my true love, so life can begin.
I swear that this town has no style or taste
(Don’t cast your pearls here or your words you will waste)
I vow I’ll return when hell’s fires have froze
Or when dreams and dead men from dust have arose.
I swear that this town of all culture’s been bled
Just walk through the market and hear what is said!
I vow that the verse that their poet’s compile
Though proudly performed do still stink so vile.
I swear that this town may not be on its own
From England, some tell us, the spirit has flown.
I swear that to beauty most now are born blind;
Become this town’s poet? You’re out of your mind!