You must see it's preposterous, Bill, sir. And yet, how the thought of it clings!

I have lived out my time—I have prigged lots of verse—I have kissed (ah, that stings!)

Lips that swore I had cribbed every line that I wrote on them—cribbed—honour bright!

Then I loathed her; but now I forgive her; perhaps after all she was right.

Yet I swear it was shameful—unwomanly, Bill, sir—to say that I fibbed.

Why, the poems were mine, for I bought them in print. Cribbed? of course they were cribbed.

Yet I wouldn't say, cribbed from the French—Lady Bathsheba thought it was vulgar—

But picked up on the banks of the Don, from the lips of a highly intelligent Bulgar.

I'm aware, Bill, that's out of all metre—I can't help it—I'm none of your sort

Who set metres, by Jove, above morals—not exactly. They don't go to Court—

As I mentioned one night to that cowslip-faced pet, Lady Rahab Redrabbit

[Pg 408]

(Whom the Marquis calls Drabby for short). Well, I say, if you want a thing, grab it—

That's what I did, at least, when I took that danseuse to a swell cabaret,

Where expense was no consideration. A poet, you see, now and then must be gay.

(I declined to give more, I remember, than fifty centeems to the waiter;

For I asked him if that was enough; and the jackanapes answered—Peut-être.

Ah, it isn't in you to draw up a menu such as ours was, though humble:

When I told Lady Shoreditch, she thought it a regular grand tout ensemble.)

She danced the heart out of my body—I can see in the glare of the lights,

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