(no subject)

[avevale_intelligencer]

So Harper, laying by her gilded lyre,
Bade the nine sisters take a day of ease
And where they wontedly did her inspire
Gave o'er herself to earthly poesies.
But I, whose muse is old and apt to tire,
Whose store of verse is scant, whose wit doth seize
On singèd fragments reft from fashion's fire
Half burnt, whose cup is drained unto the lees,
Can do no less than that I do alway,
My best scarce good enough for Doggerel Day.