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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=421468" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sonnet 11</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=421468" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">XI</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=421468" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">A Book was writ of late call'd Tetrachordon;<br>And wov'n close, both matter, form and stile;<br>The Subject new: it walk'd the Town a while,<br>Numbring good intellects; now seldom por'd on.<br>Cries the stall-reader, bless us! what a word on<br>A title page is this! and some in file<br>Stand spelling fals, while one might walk to Mile-<br>End Green. Why is it harder Sirs then Gordon,<br>Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp?<br>Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek  <br>That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp.<br>Thy age, like ours, O Soul of Sir John Cheek,<br>Hated not Learning wors then Toad or Asp;<br>When thou taught'st Cambridge, and King Edward Greek.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=421468" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Note: Camb. Autograph supplies title, On the Detraction which<br>followed my writing certain Treatises.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=John+Milton">John Milton</a></strong></div>