rymenhild

If any of you happen to acquire time machines and travel to eighteenth century England, please tell the inhabitants, from me, that all writing of poetry between the years 1700 and 1800 should be outlawed on grounds of cruelty to readers. (Unless you meet an inhabitant by the name of William Blake, who of course does not count.)

From Spring, by James Thomson, 1700-1748:

Now when the first foul torrent of the brooks,
Swell'd with the vernal rains, is ebb'd away,
And, whitening, down their mossy-tinctured stream
Descends the billowy foam: now is the time,
While yet the dark-brown water aids the guile,
To tempt the trout. The well-dissembled fly, [Page 23
The rod fine-tapering with elastic spring,
Snatch'd from the hoary steed the floating line,
And all thy slender watry stores prepare.
But let not on thy hook the tortured worm,
Convulsive, twist in agonizing folds;
Which, by rapacious hunger swallow'd deep,
Gives, as you tear it from the bleeding breast
Of the weak helpless uncomplaining wretch,
Harsh pain and horror to the tender hand.

I warned you.