Just then Remembrance seem'd to say,
"Why, sure, you wrote but yesterday!
And, scribbling every day such nonsense,
In truth you have but little conscience;
Your scrolls are all so hard to read,
They're each an Athanasian creed,
Which not a mortal understands,
So quick the line forms in your hands;
And every thought, as you conceive it,
Though immature, you being give it;
Still, still to Wisdom's full-grown thought
Your small ideas seem a mote,
Therefore on paper no more note them."
But May and Tibby will out blot them!
Exclaim'd my heart in great emotion,
Stung to the quick at Wisdom's caution;
'Tis true my heart knows no restraint,
I laugh, or sing, or make complaint;
Just as the heart compounds the dye
The colour flushes to the eye,
And while to Friendship's ken display'd,
Be ever seen its light and shade.