But I, late at night, By the very bad light Of very bad gas, must painfully write Some stuff that a Greek With his delicate cheek Would smile at as ‘barbarous’—faith, he well might.

p. 61For when it is done, I doubt if, for one, I myself could explain how the meaning might run; And as for the style—  Well, it’s hardly worth while To talk about style, where style there is none.

p. 61

It was all very fine For a poet divine Like Byron, to rave of Greek women and wine; But the Prose that I sing Is a different thing, And I frankly acknowledge it’s not in my line.

So away with Greek Prose, The source of my woes! (This metre’s too tough, I must draw to a close.)  May Sargent be drowned In the ocean profound, And Sidgwick be food for the carrion crows!

p. 62AN ORATOR’S COMPLAINT

p. 62

How many the troubles that wait On mortals!—especially those Who endeavour in eloquent prose To expound their views, and orate.

Did you ever attempt to speak When you hadn’t a word to say? Did you find that it wouldn’t pay, And subside, feeling dreadfully weak?

Did you ever, when going ahead In a fervid defence of the Stage, Get checked in your noble rage By somehow losing your thread?

p. 63Did you ever rise to reply To a toast (say ‘The Volunteers’), And evoke loud laughter and cheers, When you didn’t exactly know why?

p. 63

Did you ever wax witty, and when You had smashed an opponent quite small, Did he seem not to mind it at all, But get up and smash you again?

If any or all of these things Have happened to you (as to me), I think you’ll be found to agree With yours truly, when sadly he sings:

‘How many the troubles that wait On mortals!—especially those Who endeavour in eloquent prose To expound their views, and orate.’

p. 64MILTON

p. 64

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