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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=478185" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Here I sit with my paper…</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here I sit with my paper, my pen my ink,<br>First of this thing, and that thing,<br>and t'other thing think ;<br>I Then my thoughts come so pell and<br>I mell all into my mind,<br>That the sense or the subject I never can find :<br>This word is wrong placed, no<br>regard to the sense, <br>The present and future, instead of<br>past tense,<br>Then my grammar I want; O dear!<br>what a bore,<br>I think I shall never attempt to<br>write more,<br>With patience I then my thoughts<br>must arraign,<br>Have them all in due order like<br>mutes in a train,<br>Like them too must wait in due<br>patience and thought,<br>Or else my fine works will all come<br>to nought.<br>My wit too 's so copious, it flows<br>like a river,<br>But disperses its waters on black<br>and white never ;<br>Like smoke it appears independent<br>and free,<br>But ah luckless smoke! it all passes<br>like thee<br>Then at length all my patience entirely<br>lost,<br>My paper and pens in the fire are<br>tossed ;<br>But come, try again you must<br>never despair,<br>Our Murray's or Entick's are not<br>all so rare, <br>Implore their assistance they'll<br>come to your aid,<br>Perform all your business without<br>being paid,<br>They'll tell you the present tense,<br>future and past,<br>Which should come first, and which<br>should come last,<br>This Murray will do then to Entick<br>repair,<br>To find out the meaning of any<br>word rare.<br>This they friendly will tell, and<br>ne'er make you blush,<br>With a jeering look, taunt, or an<br>O fie! tush!<br>Then straight all your thoughts in<br>black and white put,<br>Not minding the if's, the be's, and<br>the but, <br>Then read it all over, see how it<br>will run,<br>How answers the wit, the retort,<br>and the pun,<br>Your writings may then with old<br>Socrates vie,<br>May on the same shelf with Demosthenes<br>lie,<br>May as Junius be sharp, or as Plato<br>be sage, <br>The pattern or satire to all of the<br>age;<br>But stop a mad author I mean not<br>to turn,<br>Nor with thirst of applause does my<br>heated brain burn,<br>Sufficient that sense, wit, and grammar<br>combined,<br>My letters may make some slight<br>food for the mind ;<br>That my thoughts to my friends I<br>may freely impart,<br>In all the warm language that flows<br>from the heart.<br>Hark! futurity calls! it loudly<br>complains,<br>It bids me step forward and just<br>hold the reins,<br>My excuse shall be humble, and<br>faithful, and true,<br>Such as I fear can be made but by<br>few<br>Of writers this age has abundance<br>and plenty,<br>Three score and a thousand, two<br>millions and twenty,<br>Three score of them wits who all<br>sharply vie,<br>To try what odd creature they best<br>can belie,<br>A thousand are prudes who for<br>Charity write,<br>And fill up their sheets with spleen,<br>envy, and spite,<br>One million are bards, who to<br>Heaven aspire,<br>And stuff their works full of bombast,<br>rant, and fire,<br>T'other million are wags who in<br>Grub-street attend, <br>And just like a cobbler the old writings<br>mend,<br>The twenty are those who for pulpits<br>indite,<br>And pore over sermons all Saturday<br>night.<br>And now my good friends who<br>come after I mean,<br>As I ne'er wore a cassock, or dined<br>with a dean, <br>Or like cobblers at mending I never<br>did try,<br>Nor with poets in lyrics attempted<br>to vie;<br>As for prudes these good souls I<br>both hate and detest,<br>So here I believe the matter must<br>rest.<br>I've heard your complaint my<br>answer I've made, <br>And since to your calls all the<br>tribute I've paid,<br>Adieu my good friend ; pray never<br>despair,<br>But grammar and sense and everything dare,<br>Attempt but to write dashing, easy,<br>and free,<br>Then take out your grammar and<br>pay him his fee, <br>Be not a coward, shrink not to a<br>tense,<br>But read it all over and make it<br>out sense.<br>What a tiresome girl! pray soon<br>make an end,<br>Else my limited patience you'll<br>quickly expend.<br>Well adieu, I no longer your patience<br>will try <br>So swift to the post now the letter<br>shall fly.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Percy+Bysshe+Shelley">Percy Bysshe Shelley</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=478185" data-title="Here I sit with my paper… de Percy Bysshe Shelley" data-description="Here I sit with my paper, my pen my ink,
First of this thing, and that thing,
and t'other thing think ;
I Then my thoughts come so pell and
I mell all into my mind,
That the sense or the subject I never can find :
This word is wrong placed, no
reg..."></div>
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