ABSTRACT
One of the most significant and the worst conceits of the time is its conceit of poetry. The rhapsodies of scepticism, unbelieving thoughts, blasphemous words—the thoughts dark and hopeless, the words obscure and twisted into all manner of unnatural and pedantic shapes— the very metres employed showing a restless craving after something new, and in their happiest use falling harsh and rugged on the English ear: this is some account of a good deal of what goes by the name of poetry in England now.
