Whilst many a poet to his love hath writ, Boasting that thus he gave immortal life,
My faithful lines, upon inconstant slate, Destined to swift extinction, reach not thee.
In other ages dungeons might be strange, With ancient mouldiness their airs infect,
But kindly warders would the tablets bring, So captives might their precious thoughts
Inscribing the treasures of the fruitful mind preserve,
And culling this its flowers postpone decay.
Only this age that loudly boasts reform Hath set its seal of vengeance against the
mind, Decreeing nought in prison shall be writ,
Save on cold slate, and swiftly washed away.
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