To a Poet

I never call'd thy Muse splay-footed,
Who sometimes wheez'd, and sometimes hooted,
As owls do on a lonely tower,
Awaiting that propitious hour
When singing birds retire to rest.

And owls may pounce upon the nest.

I only wish she would forbear
From sticking pins into my chair,'

And let alone the friends who come
To neutralize thy laudanum.