There was no more venomously hated man in the day than Cornbury, who answered protests against monopolies and restricted roads with paradings in women's apparel on the ramparts of the fort he called home.

Oh, please, do we have to hear that again?

The Nobleman who had been complimented in elegant Latinity by Watson, our best sonnetter, could not have delighted much in the pie-bald, pseudo English prose of this wretched Rhymester who calls himself Soothern.

Striving to sing glad songs, I but attain / Wild discords sadder than Grief’s saddest tune / As if an owl with his harsh screech should strain / To over-gratulate a thrush of June.