Dick ended: Tom and Will approved his strains,
And thought his legend made as good a figure
As naturalizing a dull German's brains,
Which beget issues in the Heliconian stews,
Upon a profligate tenth Muse,
In all the gloomy impotence of vigour .

'Twas now the very witching time of night,
When prosers yawn. " Discussion grew diffuse:
Argument's carte and tierce were lost outright;
And they fought loose.

Says Will, quite carelessly, " The other day,
As I was lying on my back
In bed,
I took a fancy in my head:
Some writings aren't so difficult as people say —
They are a knack . "

" What writings? whose? " says Tom, raking the cinders.
" Many " cried Will. " For instance, Peter Pindar's. "
" What! call you his a knack? " — " Yes; mind his measure:
In that lies half the point that gives us pleasure. "
" Pooh! 'tisn't that, " Dick cried:
" That has been tried
Over and over. Bless your souls!
'Tis seen in Crazy Tales , and twenty things beside;
His measure is as old as poles. "

" Granted, " cries Will; " I know I'm speaking treason:
For Peter
With many a joke and queer conceit doth season
His metre:
" And this I'll say of Peter, to his face,
As 'twas time past of Vanbrugh writ —
Peter has often wanted grace ,
But he has never wanted wit .

" Yet I will tell you a plain tale,
And see how far quaint measure will prevail. "