Esther M. Zimmer Lederberg
John Milton, 1608-1674: Sonnet XI
A BOOK was writ of late called Tetrachordon,
And woven close, both matter, form, and style;
The subject new: it walk'd the town awhile,
Numb'ring good intellects; now seldom por'd 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 Quintillian 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.
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