Page:Modern Parnassus - Leigh Hunt (1814).djvu/43

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The beating heart no more can find repose,
Till the plot ripen, and the action close.
With breathless haste, from scene to scene they fly,
Nor quit the hero till he wed or die.

 Speed on, ye striplings; speed, ye gentle maids;
No frowning Bard your eager course upbraids.
Though thousand wings assist your rapid flight,
You cannot read so fast as poets write.
Whate'er was sneer'd of old^[1], 'tis wisely great,
A thousand lines to pen at one bold heat.
When thoughts, and style, and numbers are forgot,
Lost in the tumult of the thick'ning plot,

1. Crispinus minimo me provocat, accipe si vis,
   Accipiam tabulas, detur nobis locus, hora,
   Custodes, videamus uter plus scribere possit.
   Hor. lib. i, sat, iv, 13.