John Milton's eleventh
sonnet, written approximately
1645.
On the Detraction Which Followed
Upon My Writing Certain Treatises
A Book was writ of late called
Tetrachordon,
And
wov'n close, both matter, form and style;
The subject new: it walked the town awhile,
Numb'ring good intellects; now seldom pored on.
Cries the stall-reader, 'Bless us! what a word on
A title-page is this!'; and some in file
Stand spelling false, while one might walk to
Mile-
End Green. Why is it harder, sirs, than
Gordon,
Colkitto, or
Macdonnel, or
Galasp?
Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek
That would have made
Quintilian stare and gasp.
Thy age, like ours, O soul of
Sir John Cheek,
Hated not learning worse than toad or asp,
When thou taught'st
Cambridge and
King Edward Greek