A Patent for a Zephyr

S TILL the North's ill-temper'd gale
Does the honours of the sail;
Cold as ice of Juno's breath,
Or the bitterness of Death,
No good-humour can reform
The inexorable storm.
Wits — on him their jewels waste,
Boreas — hang him! — has no taste;
Keen his vengeance to pursue,
Mercy's note he never blew.
How shall I — with knee unbent,
Make the Tyrant's blast relent?
Courtly homage I disdain,
Whom the Muses entertain;
If on my enchanted wreath
Inspiration they should breathe,
In a Poet's tuneful breast
I 've a Patent for the West.
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