But well knowing by experience the truth of the saying, that _poetry is its own exceeding great reward_, Lemsford wrote on; dashing off whole epics, sonnets, ballads, and acrostics, with a facility which, under the circumstances, amazed me.
Often he read over his effusions to me; and well worth the hearing they were.

He had wit, imagination, feeling, and humour in abundance; and out of the very ridicule with which some persons regarded him, he made rare metrical sport, which we two together enjoyed by ourselves; or shared with certain select friends.
Still, the taunts and jeers so often levelled at my friend the poet, would now and then rouse him into rage; and at such times the haughty scorn he would hurl on his foes, was proof positive of his possession of that one attribute, irritability, almost universally ascribed to the votaries of Parnassus and the Nine.
My noble captain, Jack Chase, rather patronised Lemsford, and he would stoutly take his part against scores of adversaries.

Frequently, inviting him up aloft into his top, he would beg him to recite some of his verses; to which he would pay the most heedful attention, like Maecenas listening to Virgil, with a book of Aeneid in his hand.

Taking the liberty of a well-wisher, he would sometimes gently criticise the piece, suggesting a few immaterial alterations.

And upon my word, noble Jack, with his native-born good sense, taste, and humanity, was not ill qualified to play the true part of a _Quarterly Review_;--which is, to give quarter at last, however severe the critique.
Now Lemsford's great care, anxiety, and endless source of tribulation was the preservation of his manuscripts.